


The Rise and Fall

by The_raven_that_never_calls



Series: Dust & Gold [5]
Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, Backstory, F/M, Headcannonns everywhere, Jenkins needs a hug later, Original Character(s), Team as Family, With slightly dysfunctional dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9244403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_raven_that_never_calls/pseuds/The_raven_that_never_calls
Summary: "Magic corrupts," he says softly. (He knows that better than anyone.)Evil is on the rise, and even the best fall down sometimes.When an ancient enemy from the past returns from the dead, the past will come to light. Working with some unlikely allies, the Librarians and their Guardian will face another evil threat that seems to be targeting one of their own. In a race against time, it's up to the Librarians and their Guardian to save the world twice before Friday again.-or-The Legends are wrong. (They always are.) But that doesn't mean the people who lived through them are more accurate.





	1. Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it is the beginning of a beautiful friendship...sort of

He had laid in darkness for so long that the light is starting to hurt his eyes. Mordred, first of his name, the rightful King of the Britons, rises from the box, flexing his muscles experimentally. Eyes adjusting to the light, Mordred finally sees the scene before him. It isn’t much to behold, just an empty building, save for a complicated contraption and a man before him with an aura that reminds him of a red serpent.  

“Well, well, well.” Mordred tilts his head curiously at the mortal standing before him. Something seemed… off. And then he remembers the rumors, the whispers, of the coming battle between order and chaos, and he knows exactly who that man is—or rather, _who_ is possessing him. “It isn’t every day that one rises from the dead.”

The man smiles. “I suppose not, Mordred.”

“Ah, so you do know who you dragged back from hell.” Mordred smirks, magic once again burning at his fingertips. “Then you should know that it is common practice to kneel before your king, but I suppose we can spare those pleasantries.”

“You suppose,” the man remarks dryly.

“After all,” Mordred continues, tapping his nose knowingly, “it isn’t every day that you meet a God, certainly not a God of Destruction and Chaos.”

“So you’ve heard of me.” The man looks pleasantly surprised at that news. “How shocking.” 

“Hell is deep, Mr. Lord of Chaos.” Mordred smirks. “Seven circles to be precise. Word gets around.”

“Then you should know why I called you back to the living.”

“Chaos and destruction—you don’t even have to ask. Consider it done.” Mordred waves his hand, clothing himself in familiar armor, black as midnight and stronger than steel. The kind that was and still is fit for a king. “This world is still corrupt as it was when Camelot fell, and I will cleanse it once again.”

After all, it is his duty, and he’s already chosen his side.

“I should hope so—or else, you would have been a wasteful investment.” The man’s lips twitch. “And that would be terrible.”

“Ah, well, I’ve never been one to disappoint. Except for that one time.” Mordred cracks his knuckles, rolling his shoulders back and stretching. “Before I get to business, quick question—is Galahad still around?”

“Unfortunately.” The possessed mortal’s lips pursue, as if remembering the last time the man tangled with the knight. Mordred can hardly blame him—after all, he too remembers the last time he had the fortune of clashing with the Grail Knight of Virtue himself. It involved Mordred losing his head entirely.

Mordred’s grin widens, heart racing in anticipation. He has been waiting centuries for this opportunity, and this is the kind of thing that gossamer-light dreams are made of. “Then it seems I have an old friend to greet.”

“May I ask why the interest in a shell of an old man?” the man asks, eyebrows raising, but Mordred can barely hear the God. Not that he cares. He has another chance to make things right, and that alone is enough. It has to be enough before he gets sent back to the Hell that he came from.

Mordred can feel the gears already turning, the plan already forming. He wants a rematch against Galahad with the same furious white rage the Incorruptible had the last time they had met. History tends to repeat itself, after all, and Mordred would like nothing better than to break the cycle before it has even begun.

“Let’s just say I have business with him.” Mordred says at last before turning on his heel and vanishing with a snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory and headcannons! Yaaaaay! So I thought, since they didn't talk about Camelot, I would make my own backstory with people, so I figured: who would make Galahad the saltiest? The person that killed Arthur, am I right? So, that's why Mordred's back in town. (With a personality that I headcannoned for him. ...I guess that's why I write fanfiction.) 
> 
> It's also a lot of fun being able to play with Apep (who will come into some important later) because he doesn't really have anything interesting in the show. He feels very much like a generic doomsday villain, so I gave him a sprinkle of snark. And more dialogue. 
> 
> More backstory will come later--I promise!


	2. the disturbance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which a fairy is the reason why the Library can't have nice things

It’s a slow day at the Library. The clipping book has been remarkably silent for the past week, and the Librarians have taken advantage of it. Flynn is still being…well Flynn and as per usual, out and about trying to find Charlene’s whereabouts. Jacob and Ezekiel have teamed up to try to track down Apep’s sarcophagus, and Cassandra, Eve and Jenkins are in his workshop trying to create new magical countermeasures for the Library. The Colonel had been quite accurate in mentioning how their defenses were—putting it politely—lacking.

It would have been a normal day. The usual note-taking, not running around the world, the dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s mundanity that the Library had (on occasion).

Until, of course, the fairy bursts in. Then the calm before the storm dissolves into just the storm.

They had just broken for lunch, Eve and Cassandra departing for the kitchen to see what they could scrounge up, when a fairy whizzes around the workshop, a white ball of light with wings fluttering frantically. “Hey! Listen!” the fairy soars around the workplace, zooming around Jenkins. The elderly man doesn’t even look up from the spell he’s currently pouring over. The fairy whizzes around him, only for him to move his head and she nearly crashes into the wall in the process. “Hey! Listen!” the fairy screams into his ear. “Hey!”

Jenkins’ brow knits together as he glances up. “What in the Devil’s—“

“ _HEY!_ ” The fairy smacks him up the side of his face. Jenkins stumbles back, clutching his cheek. “Do I have your attention now?” the fairy snaps.

“What is—“ Jenkins trails off as the fairy starts whispering in his ear. “What do you mean here? I thought she was in the Mirrorlands!” he demands sharply. The fairy, if she had eyes, surely would have rolled them, if the way the fairy bats against his face is any indication. The fairy switches to fairy-tongue, shrilly screeching in Jenkins ear with increasing agitation. As the fairy continues, Jenkins’ face grows whiter and whiter.

“Where?” he finally asks when the fairy falls silent. “Where is she, Navi?”

Navi the fairy flutters her wings. “Home.” She adds, “Or what’s left of it. Or at least in that area. Kind of hard to track it when someone’s interfering with everything.”

“I see.” Grabbing a black overcoat from the closet, he dons it before moving toward the door. Jenkins pauses for a moment, reaching down to open a well-worn box tucked neatly in his desk. He opens it, his gaze roving over the box’s seven different colored rings. His eyes darken for a moment before he shuts that particular temptation closed with a firm snap. “Let’s get going then.”

“Hurry up then!” Navi says as she flutters to the door.

“Try to behave then!” Jenkins snaps back. “And don’t let the others know that you’re here.”

“Fine.” Navi smacks him again. “Now get your rear in gear and get moving!”

“Oh, how I hate fairies,” Jenkins mutters under his breath. He follows her out of the workshop, exiting to the hallway and heading for the Annex’s main room. Jenkins is greeted by the sight of the Librarians, not eating lunch as they had planned but already firing up the backdoor.

“Jenkins!” Eve greets him with a face that is torn between a smile and a grimace. “I was just about to get you.”

“May I inquire what calls for this occasion?”

“Clippings book, mate,” Ezekiel says with a cavalier grin. “Apparently there’s been lots of electrical surges in Cornwall.“

Jenkins opens him mouth before snapping it shut. “Really…”

The thief winks. “Really.”

“How…” Jenkins pauses, eyes narrowing, “…interesting.”

“Why?” Eve tilts her head. It’s only now that she most likely notices that Jenkins, in addition to his usual bow tie and suit, is wearing a trench coat. And then the fact that there’s a glowing ball of light with wings whizzing around by his side. Jenkins can imagine that it’s odd—even for him.  

“A happy coincidence,” Jenkins says as he walks towards them. “I have business there.”

“You’re coming with us?” Cassandra asks excitedly. She grins at him, delighted, her blue eyes shining.

“Only through the door.” Jenkins gives her a small, sad smile as a wave of nostalgia washes over him. Lifetimes ago, another red-head would have been smiling at him, only her eyes would have been brown instead of blue. “After that, I’m afraid we’ll have to part.”

“And miss out on all the action?” Jake asks incredulously. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

“I assure you,” Jenkins says, “that this is journey is not meant for fun.” He and Navi race through the fired up backdoor, crossing the threshold and disappearing to the other side.  Shrugging, Eve, Cassandra, Jake, and Ezekiel exchange glances before following Jenkins’ lead.

The backdoor closes with a bang. The sound echoes in the now empty Annex, a somber note that seems to ring of finality.

—

—

—

They arrive in the middle of a forest through a door that is on its last hinges. As the magic of the backdoor fades away, they all curiously examine the terrain. On the surface, nothing seems amiss—no DOSA agents hiding in the trees or fairies playing pranks on unsuspecting travelers or zombies trying to kill them. Not a bad way to begin at all.

On the surface, it looks like a normal forest, an old forest with trees that threaten to touch the sky and look as if they appear to be carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Yup, it’s a normal forest— at least, until the magic detector comes out.

“Damn,” Jake curses under his breath as the magic detector proceeds to go haywire in his hands. “That’s a whooole lotta magic.”

Cassandra frowns. “We’re not even on a lay line.”

“We’re close to one though,” Ezekiel points out.

Cassandra strokes her chin thoughtfully. “But that still wouldn’t cause these readings…”

As the three Librarians begin to follow the magic detector, voices animatedly discussing the phenomenon, Eve pulls Jenkins back.

“Jenkins…” Eve hisses in his ear as soon as Cassandra, Jake, and Ezekiel are out of earshot. “What are you not telling us?”

Jenkins at least has the courtesy of giving her a sheepish, slightly rueful look. “Quite a lot,” he remarks dryly. “But in this case, nothing any of you will have to worry about. This is personal business only.” The ball of light beside him whacks him in the face. “And I really must be going.”  

“Uhuh.” Eve raises an eyebrow. “Personal business. Like last time with Morgan le Fay?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” The semi-immortal shrugs evasively. “Who knows? They weren’t very specific.”

Eve’s eyes narrow. “ _Who_?”

“More like a question of what, really,” Jenkins says lightly. The ball of light whacks him again with a resounding slap. Even Eve winces. That sounded like it hurt.

“And what’s that?” Eve asks, waving her hand at the ball of light that seems to be following everywhere.

Jenkins waves her off. “Nothing that you need to know.”

The ball of light, however, seems to beg to differ and charges at him once again. This time, Jenkins ducks, narrowly avoiding it, before his hand shoots out to seize the ball of light and unceremoniously shove it into his trench coat’s pocket. He gives her an innocent smile that only a fool would believe.

 “Jenkins—I need to be able to trust you.”

“You can,” he replies with absolute certainty, his voice never wavering. Eve follows his gaze and sees Cassandra, Jake, and Ezekiel veer to the right at the fork in the road ahead, talking excitedly as they follow the rapidly whirring detector.

Eve returns her attention back to Jenkins and scoffs. “Trust is a two-way street—you don’t trust me enough to tell me what the hell is going on.”

“It’s not that… Eve… It’s…” he trails off, looking out into the distance for a moment. His face twists into an odd expression that Eve can’t quite place. “I just… I—“ The glowing ball pops out of his pocket and slams into his cheek. Again. Jenkins angrily waves it off before he snaps back to look at her. It’s the same face that had greeted all of them when they had come to the Library for the first time—cold and aloof and trying so hard not to care but caring anyway.  

“You should join them, Colonel Baird.” The ball of light by his side is frantically zooming to the left path—the less traveled path too if the moss and grass growing on it is any indication. Jenkins pats her shoulder lightly before heading to the left at the fork. “I wish you and the team the best of luck. Fare well,” he says over his shoulder, smile somewhat sad, before he turns his back on her.

“Hang on, Jenkins! You can’t just—“ Eve stops, the words falling flat in her mouth.  By the time she had gone to try to follow him, Jenkins had already vanished into thin air. “I really am starting to hate it when people do that,” Eve grumbles under her breath. First Flynn… Now Jenkins… And she had thought of all people who wouldn’t run away it would have been the elderly caretaker.

Eve doesn’t know whether to be sad or just disappointed. Sighing, Eve hurries to catch up with the rest of the team.  

“Everything okay?” Cassandra asks. Her lips form a pout when she notices Eve is alone. “Where’s Mr. Jenkins?”

“On personal business, apparently.” Eve scowls. Shaking her head to try clear any doubts, she turns her attention to matters at hand. “All right team, since Jenkins has decided to take a leaf out of Flynn’s book and make a run for it, tell me what we’ve got.”

“Well, the magic here just blew up the detector,” Jake says, holding up the now smoking detector helpfully.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious!” Ezekiel remarks. The Australian turns to give Eve a smile. “Anyway, no indication of the cause, but we’re pretty sure that this influx of magic is from an external source—definitely not a lay line.”

“Right.” Cassandra continues, “So we should be looking for some artifact of some sort. Probably something newly created. Something that emits a lot of magic.”

“But what’s the effect?” Eve’s brow furrows. “The electrical surges?”

“We think that’s just a by-product of the focus. Whatever it is might not have enough power to create an effect—yet.” Cassandra shudders at the very thought. “It could be an artifact acting in conjunction with a very powerful spell. We don’t exactly know.”

“Can we track it using DOSA?” Eve inquires, remembering the Frost Giant Reunion incident.

“Probably not.” Ezekiel shrugs. “We don’t know the magician’s magical signature. In order for that to work, we have to have something they enchanted for us to track them in this magical vortex thing.” 

 “Any ideas then?” Eve looks at them expectantly.  

“Split up?” Jake suggests. “We’d cover more ground that way.”

“I agree.” Cassandra nods. “It would be more efficient.”  

“Yeah. It would make it easier to see what all the fuss is about,” Ezekiel adds.

“All right.” Eve nods. “You and Jake follow the path. Cassandra and I will double back and see what we can find.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Jake gives her a salute. “C’mon Ezekiel. Let’s move.”

“All right, all right…” Ezekiel grumbles, following Jake down the path.

“Call us if you find anything interesting!” Cassandra reminds them.

“Yes—you better!” Eve adds, more out of affection than anything else.  

“You do the same!” Jake calls back, grinning. Ezekiel gives them a cheerful wave before they go further down the path and disappear from view.

Turning on their heels, Cassandra and Eve walk back the way they came, keeping their eyes peeled for anything untoward. Mostly it’s the same. Trees. Squirrels. Rocks. More trees. Lots of squirrels. And did Eve mention trees? There are a lot of trees. (That’s probably why it’s called a forest.)

“Are you sure everything’s okay with Mr. Jenkins?” Cassandra finally asks after minutes of walking in silence. Her blue eyes are filled with concern.

“I don’t know.” Eve keeps her eyes on the undergrowth, watching for any sudden movements. “He just seemed… different today.”

“Less snarky and delightfully eccentric and more—“

“Flynn-level crazy.”

Cassandra bites her lip, her eyes widening knowingly. “I see…”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s whatever business he has here.”

“He didn’t tell you what it was?”

“You know how he gets.” Eve forges on ahead with Cassandra, trying to ignore the irritation prickling underneath her skin. “It’s like trying to ask him about Camelot.”

“He shuts down or tries to give evasive answers?” Cassandra comments, her tone voice practically screaming been-there-done-that. “That sounds like him.”

“You know, he’s really good at lying by omission.”  

“Or saying things from a certain point of view.” Cassandra adds, “Like Obi-wan Kenobi from Star Wars.”

“Well, he’s certainly has enough gray hair to look the part,” Eve mutters. “See anything interesting yet?”

“Other than everything you’d find in a forest?” Cassandra lets out a small laugh. “Nope,” she says, popping the p. “But the eyes are peeled.”   

Finally, the two of them reach a clearing and they find themselves standing at the foot of a very large oak tree with a double-headed eagle carved into the wood. Every hair on Eve’s arm is standing on end, and they both take a few uncertain steps back as they feel a wave of magic wash over them.

“I think we just found something interesting…” Cassandra says softly.

Eve nods. “For some odd reason, I think so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the characters are OOC. 
> 
> Oh, Navi. I couldn't resist putting her in, even though she's from Legend of Zelda. I mean, listening to her all the time would make anyone hate fairies. 
> 
> The double-headed eagle in some sites I found was the emblem for King Lot (who was important to Mordred, since he was technically Mordred's Step-father depending on the Legends and occasionally Mordred's ally). Hence why that symbol will be used a Mordred's emblem. 
> 
> Cornwall was selected because that was, according to some people, Arthur's birthplace, and I personally prefer Arthurian Legend to be set in Britain.


	3. the double-headed eagle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which our heroes examine the double-headed eagle more carefully

“A double-headed eagle…” Eve runs her hands along the tree before she tries to cautiously edge her way for the umpteenth time. She’s rewarded for her effort by walking into an invisible wall for the umpteenth time. “Interesting thing to carve into a tree.” Someone evidently had a lot of time on their hands. Eve turns to Cassandra. “And you’re telling me that these eagles are serving as markers for some spell?”

“Yes. Multiple eagle carvings are most likely creating some sort of barrier around this portion of the forest.” Casandra bends down to examine the roots of the worn oak more closely. Ezekiel and Jake peer curiously over her shoulder. “The actual magic seems to be resonating with the nearby lay line and transmission lines, which gave rise to the electrical surges.”

“Great.” Eve frowns. “And we have absolutely no idea what’s inside of there.”

“Nope,” Ezekiel replies cheerfully, popping the p. “No idea at all.”

“Great…” Eve massages her forehead tiredly. “Just… great.”

She can already feel the raging migraine coming. The Librarians had a penchant of jumping into situations outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, and outplanned. While she was all for letting her Librarians (because, really, they were hers as much as the Library’s) grow, she has a bad feeling about this job. Really bad—end of the world bad, which was saying a lot considering _Apep_ on their heels and DOSA on their tails. And Flynn’s off gallivanting who knows where and Jenkins was being more Jenkins than usual and there’s the final battle between good and evil looming over her head. 

“We’ve faced worst.” Cassandra gives Eve a small smile, as if reading her mind. “At least it’s not like the zombies in Madrid—“

Jake adds, “Or the ghosts haunting Castle Black—“

Ezekiel interrupts, “Or the Cannibals at Machu Picchu—“

“Or an extremely angry Jenkins,” Jake continues. “Or…“

The last comment is enough to pique Eve’s curiosity. She quirks an eyebrow. “What did you do to get Jenkins angry?”

Jake shrugs, jabbing a finger at the team’s favorite Australian. “Ezekiel stole a box.”

“Please. I couldn’t open it anyway.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “Jenkins and I are square.”

“Really?” Jake looks like he’s the cat that just got the canary. “The master-thief Dr. Jones couldn’t open a little-itty box?”

Ezekiel opens his mouth to retort, only for Cassandra to elbow him in the ribs. “Ahem!” Cassandra clears her throat, glaring at Ezekiel. Eve notices that Ezekiel has the courtesy to school his face into an appropriately contrite expression. “The point is that we’ll be fine,” Cassandra assures Eve.

For some odd reason, Eve isn’t quite convinced. (Call it Guardian’s intuition.)

Eve’s expression doesn’t shift a centimeter. The corner of Cassandra’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Don’t give me that look, Eve.”

Eve frowns. “What look?”

“ _That_ look.” She’s probably wearing her I-do-not-like-where-this-is-going face. (It’s the look that she tends to wear around Flynn—at the moment, anyway.)

“Fine. Fine. Fine.” Eve forces her most enthusiastic smile onto her face. “There! Happy! Okay people, what’s the game plan to get in?”

“Well…” Cassandra gives her a sheepish smile. “It’s a magical barrier so—“

“We’re going to have to use magic,” Eve finishes. “This day keeps getting better and better.” She sighs before snapping back into Guardian mode. “What’s the game plan team?”

“We should go back to the Annex and look up how to get into this type of barrier.” Ezekiel adds, “It’s not like any of the ones I broke into before.”

“Ezekiel Jones _reading_?” Jake nudges Ezekiel, grinning. “Is it the end of the world?”

“Please.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. Turning to Cassandra, he tilts his head and she nods her assent. “Game plan is simple. Cassandra and I will look up magical countermeasures for the barrier while Jake should have a look-see into that two-headed eagle monstrosity.”

“It’s called a double-headed eagle, Jones!”

“Tomato, tomatoe.” Ezekiel shrugs. “Just find out what it does,” he says with a wry grin. Jake, in turn, gives him a begrudging nod.

“And Eve!” Cassandra pipes up. “Can you get into contact with Mr. Jenkins? He might have a better grasp on this kind of barrier than we do.”

“On it.” Eve smiles. Maybe this wasn’t going to spell the end of the world. They did have a good track record, after all. Saving the world twice before Friday tends to do that.  “Good work team.”

As Ezekiel opens up the backdoor, Eve pulls out her cellphone and dials Jenkins’s familiar number. She goes straight to voicemail. Which is odd—even for Jenkins. Jenkins _always_ picked up, even back in the days when he had just wanted them all to be gone.

“Eve?” Jake tilts his head. “What’s Jenkins saying?”

“Nothing. He’s not picking up.” Eve shrugs, brushing it off and ushering her Librarians through the door. (Yes, they were hers as much as they were the Library’s.) “Let’s just get back to the Annex and get to work.”

Privately, Eve wonders what in the devil could that old man be doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the OOCness and sorry about the late and short update. I had to hammer out the details for the rest of the plot, life got in the way...again, and I had an existential crisis about writing fanfiction...again. 
> 
> ...I have a bit too much time on my hands. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! More to come soon!


	4. the trolley problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Jenkins makes the same choice that he has made repeatedly for over a thousand years and the author’s ship starts to smoke crack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: for the breakdown

Jenkins, for the most part, is thinking.

There is a reason why he had sent Colonel Baird after Morgan the first time, just as there is a reason why he hasn’t this time.

(He isn’t strong enough to stop her, but he isn’t weak enough to abandon her. He isn’t the greatest knight in the world anymore, but he isn’t just the Caretaker.

…he doesn’t know _who_ he is anymore.) 

 _“Are you going to help her or not?”_ Navi had asked him back in the Annex, and the dragon of his fear had reared its ugly head. It had stirred in the ashes of his heart before returning to its slumber, but it reminds him that the fear is still there, lurking beneath the surface and waiting in the darkness to seize the chance to claw away at the light. 

He’s here and that should be an answer in it of itself. Even after all of these years, his answer has always remained the same. (He swore the vows, after all, and big or small, he must do his duty.) 

But while the answer is (unfortunately) _always_ and _of course_ , the _how_ has always been unclear. The years have changed him and he isn’t quite sure at the moment if he is able to pay the cost.

“Is this the spot, Navi?” Jenkins eyes travel upward to see the massive double-headed eagle carved into an oak at the edge of the wood. He’d recognize that symbol anywhere. It was _his_ symbol, after all, the heraldry of Galahad’s second biggest regret. But Mordred had fallen with Camelot. The boy was long dead and rotting in the ground.

(He should know—he had watched him die, after all, watched as the boy’s screams and desperate pleas faded to silence— _eventually_.)

 “Yep!” Navi flits by him and tries to fly forward, only to run face first into what looks like an invisible wall. The fairy slides down the barrier until she is caught by Jenkins’ careful hands.

Navi shakes her head disgruntledly. “Well, that hurt.”

His mouth twitches in amusement. “I’m sure,” Jenkins says, as he bends down to examine the barrier, familiar and foreign all at once. Magic begins to flood to his fingertips, the lay line’s power tries to flow through him, but Jenkins forcibly pushes it away. (Magic is an addiction, after all, and once you start, it’s nearly impossible to stop.) “See any way to break the barrier?”

Navi gives an aside glance. “It’s a _magical_ barrier, Galahad,” she says exasperatedly, as if talking to a petulant mortal. “You do the math.”

“Do you see any way to break the barrier _without magic_?” he clarifies. There is power here, but surely that means the focus has to be somewhere nearby. A simple tap might be able to do the trick if the focus is close enough…

“What do you think I am? The tooth fairy? Santa? A genie?” the fairy snaps. “Last time I checked, this kind of magical barrier can only be broken by magic.” She gives him a pointed glare. “And I’m not the greatest knight in the world.”

Jenkins can’t even look at her in the eye. (He isn’t worthy enough to be called a knight anymore.)

 _Galahad_ would have shattered the barrier without a bat of an eye and rushed in, magic burning on his fingertips and barely constrained fury in his eyes, always the knight in somewhat shiny armor. But Galahad had died with Camelot, and this shell of him was all that was left in his place, all that remained after the foolish boy went to Hell and decided (stupidly) to come back. 

Promises and what-could-have-beens are strangling him alive. Duty and honor are the chains that keep him tethered here, love and hate are the prison that confines him—and as always, she is both his saving grace and his executioner.

Time is a bomb ticking in Jenkins’ hands, after all, and he has to cut a wire—the red or the blue. It is the trolley problem all over again (how many lives will he take for the sake of many?—or conversely, how many lives will be lost for the sake of one?), and he wonders how many times this cycle will be repeated.

(If the past is any indication, the answer is simple—too many times to count.)

“I just—“ He trails off, unable to explain the nightmares or the darkness or the curse of the Holy Grail or that look—eyes widened in betrayal, disappointment flooding her features—on his lady’s face. (Magic, he reminds himself, always has a cost—and the price he pays is higher than most.) “I _can’t_.”

Navi glares at him. “Then you’ve condemned her to death.”

And he has, in a way. Death by inaction is no better than an actual murder. Jenkins—as weakened and feeble as he has become—can feel it too. Morgan’s magical presence blinks faintly, like a star that is slowly being swallowed up by the darkness. The dragon thrashes in his heart, its tail coiling around his throat, strangling him.

_(He’s seen her die so many times in his dreams. It’s always the same—every single time._

_“Galeas… It’s… It’s all right.” She’s pale and fragile in his arms, breathing heavily, blood dripping from her side, her magical power fading,_ falling _to darkness. She’s bleeding out in his arms and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. All this power burning on his fingertips and he still isn’t good enough, isn’t strong enough to save her. “It’s all right.”_

_Her fingers intertwine with his, her thumb absently tracing meaningless patterns on his hands. Morgan gives him a soft smile, her eyes bright like dying stars, as her magic intertwines with his. “You fool,” she says, and for a moment, it’s just like old times._

_Even now, when she says ‘You fool’, he still knows exactly what she means._

_“Let’s go home, Galeas,” she whispers, dying.)_

Everything is wrong. He forces out a shuddering breath. His lungs are constricting together. Everything hurts. He shouldn’t be here, but yet he is. Love may be the death of duty, and yet it is duty (and love—if he is being honest) that is tearing him apart.

_(“Big or small,” Galahad had once recited dutifully, smiling gently at the expectant Lancelot, “we must do our duty.”)_

The lay lines are calling to him again, a dizzying, bewildering Siren’s song. Jenkins grimaces, clenching his fists, head throbbing. He can’t deny magic forever, just like he can’t deny what they once were. Magic sparks on his fingertips and he quickly pushes it away—he _can’t_ — _But you have to, a small voice says. You have to, **have to** , **HAVE TO** —_ but he can’t—not again—not—

_But he has to._

The dragon roars. He can barely hold it back.

“Why are you trying to break the barrier, you fool?” a familiar voice says with amusement. Morgan le Fay emerges from the shadows, her face breaking into a radiant smile as their eyes meet. She is as beautiful as ever. The silver ring, studded with a sapphire, glints on her finger.

The dragon suddenly stills. Jenkins’ mouth goes dry. “Morgan.”

“You fool.” Morgan closes the distance between them, her arms wrapping around his neck, her lips brushing against his cheek. He can’t move, can barely breathe. “I’m so glad that you’re okay,” she whispers, holding him close. “Sorry about the call. I only just got away.” Morgan gives him a brilliant smile. “It’s… good to see you.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.” Morgan’s smile widens, her eyes surprisingly soft. “I still love you, Galahad.” 

His heart stops for a moment.

He has dreamed of this for so _damn_ long—of a second chance, of a promise for a new start, where it could be just like old times and they could go back to how they used to be. In another life, he would have held her close and never let go.

But that had been lifetimes ago.

(“ _You’re better off alive,” he whispers fiercely, desperately in her ear. He holds her close to his chest, her tears burning through the fabric and stabbing into his heart. Tragedy threatens to open a chasm between the two of them, woven into their story by the blood and the unnaturally still child that lays before them. “You’re better off with **me**.”_

 _He can’t lose her. The dragon trapped in his heart reminds him of that. He’s lost the daughter he has never known, the daughter who had her hair and her smile and his eyes. He won’t lose her too, he promises to himself_. **_He won’t lose her too_**. **_HE WON’T LOSE HER TOO._** _)_

And this version of her isn’t even real.

Jenkins’ grip on her tightens, magic instinctively pooling in his palms. “As you wish, _Morgan_ ,” he says with a serene smile he cannot possibly mean. (In the old days, she had always been _his_ lady.)

Before she can even get a word in edgewise, his fingers around her tighten and magic slams itself into her, ripping away the illusion of a beautiful red-haired woman and careening the imposter into the nearest tree. A hulking, armored soldier smashes into the bark, groaning in pain before struggling back to his feet. Without any hesitation, the soldier charges forward, brandishing a war hammer.

Jenkins sees right through him. Morgan’s light is just beyond the barrier; it weakens, dimming, still brilliant and yet not, still beautiful but dying quietly, gradually, spiraling into a death by a thousand tiny little cuts. He is running out of time—she is running out of time—

( _They’re young again. Still happy. Still whole. Morgan gives him a small, sad smile as she looks back up to the sky. “Everything dies,” she reminds him gently. “Even stars burn out, Galaes.”)_

He can’t stop himself, no more than someone can stop the sun from rising once again in the east. Magic begins to roar in his ears. The dead knight begins to stir, and the dragon breaks free to consume him whole.

He doesn’t have time to play games right now.

“On your **_knees_!** ” Jenkins flicks his fingers. The soldier freezes in his tracks as magic slams him into the ground, pinning the soldier underneath the dead knight’s rage. It takes every ounce of his own self-control to not burn the entire forest to the ground. Magic rejoices in his hands, flames and memories licking his skin. He is burning up. (He _is_ Hellfire and he doesn’t even know it yet.)

“How did you know?“ the soldier rasps, trying desperately to scramble away.

“She never calls me Galahad— _idiot_ ,” Jenkins remarks far, far too calmly. His smile is serene. He stands over the man, engulfing him in his shadow. “Now, where. is. she?”

“Not here!” the soldier spits. He’d probably have said more, but Jenkins is not in the mood to play with his food before he slaughters it. Magic wraps itself around the soldier’s neck and begins to _squeeze._

“You’re _lying_ to me.” Jenkins kneels down to meet the soldier at eyelevel. A curl of his fingers and magic tightens itself around the man’s throat. The poor little soldier chokes on his own panicked screams. “I don’t suggest you lie to me, _especially_ when you decided to wear _her_ face.”

“I didn’t mean… I’m sorry! Mordred _made_ me!” The soldier looks up at him pleadingly. Jenkins watches the man impassively as despair clouds the soldier’s eyes. He does not suffer fools gladly—especially if they were liars as well. “Please… _Please!_ Spare me! I just want to finish this and go home. I’ll tell you everything! _Please!_ ”

The dead knight almost pauses. He and Jenkins both have heard excuses like this before. (They never meant much, in the end. He had learned the hard way that you can’t save everyone.) 

The magic at the soldier’s throat loosens just enough to let the man keep talking. “What can you tell me, soldier?”

“Mordred revived me with the Book of the Dead! He has an army of once dead soldiers just like me! And he has a partner—Apep! Morgan’s with them! Up the path, past the barrier. I swear!” the soldier babbles, tears filling his eyes. “I’m telling you the truth this time! You have to believe me! Please! I just want to go home to and see my family just once more. Please. Have mercy.”

“Of course.” His smile softens. Jenkins sees the look of relief spreading across the man’s face. A snap of his fingers sets the man ablaze. (It is a mercy, after all, to kill the man when his family is long dead already and the place he called home is nothing more than a burnt kingdom of ruined ash and charred bone and trampled upon dreams of hope and gold.) In the end, nothing is left of the soldier—not even a name or a pile of ashes.

He wishes sometimes that someone like himself would come along and do the same thing to him.

Sometimes.

The memories he’s tried for a good century to suppress are beginning to resurface. He’s not that person anymore, he tries to desperately remind himself. He is _Jenkins_. The Caretaker of the Library. Not a knight and certainly not the hero. That’s all he is. Just an old man who just wants to be left alone and has no one.  

It doesn’t work.

It all comes back again—slowly and then all at once.

_(Everything is burning in his hands. He’s sprinting as fast as he can, trying to ignore the screams, the clang of swords connecting to armor, trying to forget the betrayal from his former brothers in arms, the disappointment in his father’s eyes. His sword is less a weapon than it is a death sentence to those that try to stand in his way. He’s cutting his way through the fray, desperately trying to reach Arthur, who’s in the midst of dueling Mordred._

_When he does, it isn’t in time._

_“Please…Galahad… Please… Please…” Arthur says with his final breath, reaching out to brush Galahad’s cheek. “You must spare—“ And then He’s gone. Just like that. Excalibur lets out a mournful howl. He just stares blankly down at the now cooling corpse. The Great King of Britain is dead just like that. Out with a whimper, not a bang. But what of Morgan—his mind races, fear racing through his system—is she too—_

_“The King is dead!” Mordred shouts, his voice trembling slightly. The boy brandishes his sword shakily into the air. “Long live the King!”_

_Galahad rises from the ground to stare at Mordred, hellfire beginning to pool in his palms, the dragon roars triumphantly in his ears, and all he can see is red **red RED**. _

_When he’s done with the lot of them, Camelot has fallen and he’s left with nothing but dust and ashes and a broken heart in his bloody hands.)_

“Hey.” Navi flutters up to his face, giving him a gentle nudge, her anger from moments ago forgotten. “You okay?”

Jenkins smiles, the kind of smile that can almost reach his eyes—if he tries hard enough. “Just fine,” he says. (It’s the same white lie he’s been saying for over a thousand years.)

There is a quiet thrum in the back of his head. The magic in the air is swirling around him, calling to him, begging him to use it, bend it to his will, to consume it until there was nothing except for a raging inferno in place of where this forest stands. There is a smoldering fire where his heart is supposed to be, and it has burned through the walls of his heart until his heart has become crumbling ashes in his hands.

(The truth is that he wants to burn it all to the ground. Anything to slay the dragon that has risen from the ashes that once was his heart. _Anything._

He would have then done anything—both then and now.)

“Shall we go?” Navi asks quietly, cautiously.

“Let’s.” Taking a deep breath, Jenkins calls the wild magic to him, its power concentrating on his fingertips, magic dancing in his hands. His hand rests on the barrier.

Closing his eyes, Jenkins whispers, _< <break>> _

The effect is instantaneous. Magic courses through the enchantment, rooting out its weaknesses, tearing apart the chinks in its armor. The barrier shatters into a million pieces, the remnants of its magic falling to the earth like stars.

He hasn’t felt this alive in years. (He hasn’t felt this close to breaking in years.)

Reaching out, he can feel Morgan’s light dimming, her once brilliant aura becoming nothing more than the soft glow of a dying firefly, each pulse a quiet countdown to the end.

She is not just a star to him, she is the entire damn sky, and she is running out of time.

He’s already moving in her direction without a second thought, fear and magic quickening his steps _. He can’t lose her. He **can’t**_ **.** **_HE CAN’T_** _._ (He was too late in the end for Arthur, but he will always be on time for her.) The darkness that once consumed him laughs teasingly in his ear, but he doesn’t care.

A little more magic wouldn’t hurt anybody.

—

—

Beside him, Navi gulps.

The dragon soars unchained once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it, hate it, indifferent to it? Feel free to drop a comment or PM. I'm always interested in what people have to say!
> 
> Just some author's notes:   
> I've had this as a headcannon since the Rule of Three and the Apple of Discord way back in the golden age of Season 1. Jenkins has always been my favorite character due to his enigmatic background. What would make someone want to squirrel themselves away and just do research? As someone who is doing research, part of the fun is being able to interact with and bounce ideas off someone else. To want to shut yourself off from other people, I feel that it isn't compelling enough to do so because you're "in love" with someone at work (*cough* as per the Fatal Separation *cough*). In my opinion, it's because you're afraid of loss, of growing close to people and losing them and/or failing to save them. Deconstructing the potential reasons why Jenkins is like this is much more fascinating than simply writing this off as simple unrequited love. 
> 
> Spoiler Alert: When I saw Jenkins try to strangle Eve in S3E10, I was secretly really excited because it confirmed that the Jenkins in the show is protective and more than willing to destroy the people who threaten those he cares about. It's interesting to write him like this--as someone who's willing to do anything to protect his friends no matter what the cost. Noticeably, in the 3rd Season, Jenkins is much more hands-on, clearly using magic and swordsmanship to save the Librarians. It wouldn't be surprising to think that he's been holding back this entire time. 
> 
> If you have time, you should check out my other work "race you to the bottom." (lol what a shameless plug) Everything in this series kinda ties together (for once), and maybe it'll help flesh Jenkins and probably Morgan out. (Plus, it's nice to be able to have repeating motifs.)
> 
> So, as this fic does contain a crack pairing, and I know most people won't tune in, I'm just dropping this AN off cause I can (I guess?). 
> 
> There's a lot more to come! (and the crack pairing will be on the periphary) so I do hope you keep reading this fic!


	5. interlude: the boy king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the villains snark and give (far too obvious) exposition

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Mordred looks out to his waiting army, returned from the dead once again. Mages… Knights… Archers…  Healers… They’re all here once again. These were and still are the men that would follow him to the depths of hell and back, willingly, gladly. (It wasn’t always that way—there was a time where he was the undeserving heir to Camelot and the people who were supportive of him Mordred could count on one hand.

 _He_ had been one of them. It’s not much, _he_ had told him, but Mordred had begged to differ—it meant the _world_.)

It still surprises him a little, after all these years, that people will follow him.

Apep raises an eyebrow. “I suppose… If you enjoy wasting magic on reviving an outdated army.” The God of Chaos and Destruction frowns. “I personally would have been partial to summoning a few _actual_ warriors. Gilgamesh… Enkidu… Hell, even Heracles…”

“They are _all_ warriors and they are my people.” Mordred glares at him, gesturing to the men who fought for him and believed in him to their dying breath, even as hellfire had ravaged the battlefield, as if Satan himself had descended to inflict God’s wrath upon them all. “Their fate will be the same as ours.”

“I should hope not,” Apep scoffs. “Foolishness and nostalgia are not attractive traits in a king.”

“But compassion and loyalty are,” Mordred shoots back and tries to ignore the pang of nostalgia. It’s something that _he_ would have said, after all. "It is the duty of a king to protect and guide his people, after all, and big or small, we must do our duty." Mordred closes his eyes and feels the ghost of affectionate fingers ruffling through his hair. "That's what my...” He hesitates for a moment too long. “…mentor always said."

Apep tilts his head. “Your mentor?”

“It doesn’t matter anyway.” He knows better than to trust a snake with too much. The cards he’s been dealt are limiting as is, and he needs to keep all the advantages he can get. (There’s no need to tell him that his mentor had been the person he had admired most, before Merlin and Aunt Morgan and Gawain—even before Arthur.) “He’s dead, and he’s never coming back.” Eager to change the topic, Mordred continues, “Anyhow, the message to my aunt in the Mirrorlands has been sent. She’ll most likely be here shortly.”

Apep barely suppresses a chuckle. “I hardly doubt that Morgan le Fay will come racing over here over some knight.”

“Not some knight.” Mordred remembers the way his aunt used to look at Galahad and the way he looked back. “ _Her_ knight.”

“Doubtful.” Apep adjusts his host’s sleeves, looking thoroughly unimpressed. “Morgan le Fay is a survivor. She’s not _stupid_ enough to fall in love.”

Mordred barely manages to not roll his eyes. “I would like to point out that you’ve never met her.”

“And I would like to point out that you know nothing!” Apep smirks. “ _One_ of us has lived over the age of thirty and nearly released pure evil into this dimension.”

“Key emphasis on _nearly_.” Mordred gives in and rolls his eyes. _He_ would have been disappointed in the lack of decorum, but Mordred is slowly finding fewer and fewer reasons to care. (Not that _he_ had been one to talk, given the amount of snark he and Morgan seemed to spit out.) “At least _I_ didn’t spend over a thousand years trapped in a box.”

Apep’s face just twitches. “It is a _sarcophagus_!”

“Oh, sorry. You’re still trapped in that box, aren’t you?” Mordred adds snidely.

Apep glares at him. “I should remind you that I am your _lord_ and _master_!” Apep snarls, probably wondering vaguely if it was too late to shift his assets into a new, less talkative, more focused investment. “You will treat me with the proper respect!”

“Respect?” Mordred sneers. “Have you _seen_ who I’m related to? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Evidently.” Apep’s eyes narrow slightly. “Should I get you a dictionary?”

“Not if you want help from my army.” Mordred fixes him with hopefully his most intimidating stare. “We both know that you can’t hope to match her in your current state. Like it or not, you need me.”

“ _Hardly_.” Apep folds his arms. “I highly doubt that she’ll live up to her reputation.”

“Oh, she doesn’t live up to her reputation—she has a nasty tendency to exceed it.” Mordred can’t wait for Apep to find that out first hand. He still has the scars from the _last_ time he got on the wrong side of his aunt. “You’ll do well to remember that.”

Apep’s eye flash red. “And you’ll do well to remember who you’re talking to.”

“What else can _you_ do to me?” Mordred almost laughs. “The last time I died, I died in agony. I’ve been tortured. Beaten. Stabbed. Burned. Betrayed. I have seen my loved ones die before me and stab me in the back. I have lost the only place I call home. What _else_ can anyone do?”

“I could kill you again,” Apep notes dryly, cracking his knuckles threateningly.

“And then what? You have to find another person who can speed up your ritual process?” Mordred snorts. “Good luck with that. We’re about to fight the only two who can, and I don’t think of either of them will be happy to see you, much less work with you. You’re stuck with my, Lord Apep, whether you like it or not.”

 “Hmph.” Apep’s eyes glimmer with something akin to newfound admiration. “After you finish this little plot—“

“I’ll work for you.” Mordred adds hotly, “But this is all called off if my aunt somehow dies in the process. I won’t lose the only family I have left.”

“Very well.” Apep rolls his shoulders, stretching. “I’ll do my very best not to kill some jumped-up little witch. I’m the God of Destruction and Chaos. How hard will defeating her be?”

“With the magic-siphoning barrier…. Pretty hard.” Mordred remembers the last time Aunt Morgan had been in similar circumstances and _winning_. (But to be fair, that was back in the old days when _he_ was by her side.) “You’ll probably win based on a war of attrition. Send more men ahead of you and let her deal with them first before you step in when she’s finally weakened.”

“I think you give your aunt too much credit.”

Mordred shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”

As if Fate herself is trying to prove the God wrong, Mordred feels Aunt Morgan ripping through the fabric between dimensions to come hurtling back home. She triggers all the wards and defensive barriers Mordred has set up, magic already being drawn to her from the sheer power and force of her wrath. 

Apep frowns as he sees Morgan’s steady march toward their main base of operations. “Do you think I can take on Galahad instead?” he asks.

“Very funny.” Mordred turns to his Commander, Sir Hector. After Galahad, Lancelot, Percival, Bors, Tristan, and several others, there is no else Mordred would rather have by his side. “Go ready the troops for engagement. You and Lord Apep here will be stalling for time. Tell Erec to be there for Galahad’s arrival.”

“It will be done, your majesty.” Hector pauses. “I assume you’ll deal with Galahad yourself?”

Mordred’s hand tightens around the pommel of his sword. “Yes.”

“Good.” Hector reaches out to give Mordred’s shoulder a squeeze. “Avenge us, your majesty.”

Mordred closes his eyes, remembering the fire in Galahad’s eyes blazing into an inferno, the raw fury and anger boiling under the surface, barely restrained. (They had been such kind eyes once, soft and trusting brown ones that reminded him of Uncle Arthur.)

But that Galahad had died a long time ago, and Mordred has every intention of annihilating what little of him remained.

“ _Always._ ”

He's waited a thousand years for this moment.

He only has to wait a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Hector de Maris (or Ector de Maris) in Arthurian Legend is actually Lancelot's younger half-brother. I retconned him into working for Mordred, but it makes sense in context, considering Hector was loyal to Lancelot back in the old, old days. 
> 
> Mordred's kind of fun to write. Apep too. Honestly, I feel like Apep wasn't fleshed out enough in S3 beyond wanting to release pure evil for the lols and to return the world to its naturally chaotic state. The God of Chaos has other things going for him OTHER than just trying to unleash pure evil onto the world.
> 
> If you're wondering why Apep is so obsessed with the return on his investments, it is because he is a snake so he will have a snek-like personality. (If you want further info, google Wharton snek memes. hahaha 0.0)


	6. as you remember it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which everyone doesn't follow directions

“Anything on the eagle, Stone?” Eve asks as she flips through yet another magic book and coming up cold on the barrier. She and Jacob are in the Annex’s main room pouring over texts while Ezekiel and Cassandra are off in Jenkins’ lab, probably coming up with the next best thing since sliced bread.

Jenkins is still MIA with absolute silence—radio or otherwise. (Even _Flynn_ had the courtesy of sending her a text. It had far too many emojis for her liking, but still, it was the thought that counts.)

“I think I’ve found something…” Jacob waves a battered book in his hands excitedly. “It’s from one of Merlin’s old journals. Apparently, King Lot used it as a symbol way back when.”

Eve blinks. Part of that sentence sounded somewhat familiar. “And King Lot is…”

“King of the Lothian, father of Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth—and Mordred, depending on the legend.” At the lost expression on Eve’s face, Jacob clarifies, “A guy from Arthurian Legend.”

“So Camelot.”

“Well, technically Lothian was said to be located in Scotland,” Jacob corrects. “But yes, Camelot.”

“Okay…” Eve taps her chin thoughtfully. “So some nutjob is running around carving an ancient symbol from Camelot on trees.”

“To create a barrier,” Jacob adds before pausing, his brow furrowing. “Kind of sounds stupid when you say it out loud.”

Eve gives him a shrug. “A lot of the things we do sound stupid when we say it out loud.”

“Touché.” Jacob grins, and Eve smiles in spite of herself. “Anyway, I’m thinking that we should talk to Jenkins about this. He’d probably know more about the subject than we’d do.”

“Well, he still hasn’t picked up his phone.” Eve frowns, fumbling for the nearest book on Camelot. “So we might want to act as if he’s not coming back for a while. Just in case.”

“Good point.”

As if on cue, Eve’s phone rings. Checking the caller, Eve is relieved that it is Jenkins. “Jenkins!” She picks up the phone, putting the cantankerous Caretaker on speaker. “Speak of the Devil. We need your expertise on—”

“Colonel Baird,” Jenkins’ voice sounds colder than usual. “I need you to keep you and the Librarians in the Annex.”

“What for?” Jacob demands. “We already know what the double-headed eagle represents! Actually, we wanted to ask you—“

“As the Caretaker, I will take care of this unfinished business, and _I_ will clean this matter up myself.” Jenkins tone brooks no argument. His tone is clipped, precise, like a general giving unquestioned orders. (With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Eve realizes that like this he sounds so much like Dulaque.) “I will contact you when the area is clear. Until then, remain the Annex.”

“Wait, Jenkins—“

“That’s an _order_ , Colonel Baird!” Jenkins snaps, and Eve hears the snarl of Dulaque in his barely restrained fury. ( _Dulaque's eyes glitter._ _“I've killed more Librarians than you've seen stars, Guardian_ …”) Before either can reply, both Jacob and Eve can hear the very loud disconnect tone from the other side.

“He hung up on _us_.” Eve gapes disbelievingly. Sure, Jenkins could be grouchy, dour, slightly petulant, but even he had never _not_ answered any of their questions outright. As much as the old man sometimes infuriated her, Jenkins had managed to help them more times than she could count.

Even on his worst days, Jenkins had never acted like this. This is nothing like him at all.

“Should we go after him?” Jacob crosses his arms. “Sounds like he thinks we’d be in over our heads back there.”

“Well, he _is_ semi-immortal.” Eve hesitates, thinking of Cassandra, who still didn’t have control over her gift, and Ezekiel, whose hands have started to do punchy but not nearly enough, and even Jacob, who still has an iffy left hook. He’ll be all right, Eve knows. He always is. Jenkins is their main tank and what she has come to realize is there trump card in case anything goes to hell.

“He can’t die...” she says uncertainly.

“He can still be killed,” Jacob points out.

Eve’s frown deepens. “Let’s go see what Cassandra and Ezekiel have come up with. We’ll talk as a team.”

—

“I’m just saying nothing can beat the magic tic-tacs,” Ezekiel says, as he and Cassandra bustle around Jenkins’s lab, prepping the magic explosives that would hopefully (nine times out of eleven) take out the magical barrier. Ezekiel hands her the eye of newt and watches her plop it unceremoniously into the cauldron.

“Except for magic Oreos,” Cassandra argues, grinning.

“Ooh!” Ezekiel holds up a finger. “Add magic milk, and that would be absolutely _epic_.” 

Cassandra laughs, nudging Ezekiel with her shoulder. “As long as we don’t mistake the milk for this.”

“That would be bad,” Ezekiel agrees wholeheartedly. Checking the viscosity of the solution simmering in the cauldron, Ezekiel gives Cassandra a thumbs-up. “I think we’re ready to head back there.”

“Ready to cause more trouble?” Cassandra’s eyes sparkle.

“ _Please._ I’m Ezekiel Jones.” Ezekiel winks at her before scooping the solution into storage containers. “Trouble’s my middle name.” 

“Ezekiel! Cassandra! How’s it going?” Eve walks in with Jacob just behind her. Eve’s shoulders are tenser than usual, her smile a little too cheerful to be real.

“Just finished.” Cassandra holds up the containers proudly, the brownish liquid sloshing around dangerously. “All we have to do is pour these explosive potions onto the tree. The resulting explosion should be able to short circuit the power in that area, so we’ll be able to deactivate the barrier long enough to sneak in. Then we can find the focus of the spell and save the day.”

“Impressive.” Jake punches Ezekiel affectionately. “Good work, you two.”

“ _Impeccable_ work,” Ezekiel corrects. “Good is a stepdown from perfection.”

Eve rolls her eyes, but her eyes are kind. “Very funny, Ezekiel.”

“What?” Ezekiel grins. “I can’t help that I’m perfect.”

“What about me?” Cassandra’s brow furrows as she frowns.

“You’re pretty swell too,” Ezekiel admits, and the two of them share a grin. 

“So Librarians…” Eve snaps her fingers repeatedly to get their attention. “Jenkins has just called us and told us that he wanted to deal with this himself.”

“ _Himself?_ ” Cassandra looks at Eve incredulously. “We’re the Librarians. This is what we do.”

Ezekiel frowns. “Think it has anything to do with the double-headed bird?”

“Well, the double-headed _eagle_ is commonly associated with King Lot, father of Gawain, Agravain, Gaheris, Gareth, and Mordred.” Jake pauses. “Could be something to do with Mordred.”

Eve looks just a little lost for a moment. “And Mordred is…”

“The notorious traitor of Camelot that wounded and killed Arthur according to legends,” Ezekiel finishes for her. 

Jacob stares at him, downright incredulous. “How do you know that, Jones?”

“Wikipedia,” Ezekiel replies, wiggling his phone. “This is the age of the internet, Stone. Use it or lose it.”

Even Jacob can’t help but touché the point.  

“I thought you said that Jenkins blames Morgan le Fay for killing Arthur, Eve,” Cassandra muses out loud, turning to look at Eve.

Eve, on her part, just shrugs. “We never did have that conversation.”

“Well, according to legend, Mordred’s dead,” Ezekiel pipes up, scrolling down his phone. “Arthur apparently killed him in the Battle of Camlann.”

“We should still investigate anyway.” Cassandra begins packing up the storage containers quickly. “Jenkins might be in trouble.”

“He could be freaking out about nothing.” But Jacob, like everyone else, doesn’t look the slightest bit convinced or reassured by what he just said. “Either way, I think it’s better to play it safe and check up on the old man. Make sure he’s not doing an old Flynn maneuver and going in over his head.”

“Jones?”  Eve prompts.

Personally, Ezekiel finds it difficult to believe that Jenkins _could_ be in trouble. As a thief, he knows a good escape artist when he sees one, and his thief senses tell him that Jenkins is a master. (He also knows a good liar when he sees one, and Jenkins is a good one—even if he never does tell them outright lies.)

Privately, he wonders who or what exactly Jenkins is trying to protect by charging headlong into the unknown like some idiot Leeroy Jenkins.

(Ezekiel remembers seeing Jenkins charge into the La Vida de la Luz retreat, sword drawn, with an aura of pure, unadulterated fury in his eyes. Magic had been flowing from him, reaching and strangling their would-be assailants, reducing their speed to the point where even he and Jacob could have taken them.

“Where. Is. Cassandra?” Jenkins had demanded. Jacob and Ezekiel had been quick to reply before Jenkins had stormed off in that direction at breakneck speed. Ezekiel had found ashes upon ashes left in the old man’s wake and wonders why _this_ man hadn’t wanted to fight Dulaque all those years ago.)

“I think we should stay in the Annex,” Ezekiel says at last, not at all eager to see that side of Jenkins again. If Jenkins is acting like _that_ , anybody else would probably just get in his way. “Let the old man have his fun.” He forces himself to add, “Let’s just save our own skins, yeah?”

Cassandra’s face falls, and Ezekiel doesn’t want to look at her and see the disappointment crossing her features. “Ezekiel….”

“Jones…” Jacob just sounds like he expected this, and Ezekiel wants to shut his ears and drown the doubts that Jacob always manages to bring out.

Ezekiel doesn’t know which is worse.

Eve frowns. “All right. As shining examples of democracy, let’s head out then. We have a Caretaker to pursue.” She turns to look at Ezekiel, eyes full of concern. “Jones, you can stay here if you want.”

“Please. And miss out all the fun?” Ezekiel forces himself to grin. “Not a chance! I still think you’re making a mistake, but you know me—I’ll follow you all to the ends of the earth with only mild complaining.”

“Mild is a polite way of putting it,” Eve remarks lightly as they troop back into the main room and start firing up the back door.

“Constant would be better,” Jacob points out. He nudges Ezekiel quite closely, so closely that the cowboy wouldn’t notice if something of his went missing. “And you get that slight alliteration in the process.”

“Very funny.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes, handing Jacob back his now empty wallet. Ignoring Jacob’s irritation and protests, Ezekiel walks through the door. “Let’s just get this over with.”

—

—

He can’t wait to get this over with, and then the world could begin anew, better, more beautiful, and more like it used to be.

If only things were as Mordred remembered—when the world still young, still somewhat whole. A good, just king. Loyal knights. Magic enriching lives instead of destroying them. His family, unbroken and undaunted, living, breathing embodiments of everything good about this golden age of magic.

Then there was him.

It may have been the end of the age of heroes, but Camelot had saved its best for last. He had been the greatest knight in the world, worthy of Excalibur and the Holy Grail. The Galahad he knew was _the_ best—the strongest, the kindest, the bravest, the smartest…

Galahad is nothing like Mordred remembered him.

This old man is nothing like him at all. He’s decrepit, old, and weak without the easy smile that Galahad always wore like a second skin.

Then Mordred sees his eyes, and he sees the hellfire burning there. Those, he knows, are the eyes of the man that killed him. (Galahad, he notes almost… sadly, hasn’t changed at all since that fateful battle.)

“I’ve been waiting for this day, Galahad.” Mordred draws his sword, magic beginning to burn on his fingertips. “I once stood before you as the student, but now I am the master.”

The Galahad of old would have given him a witty quip. (“Master of nothing, more like it!” he had once joked easily, grinning and ruffling Mordred’s hair affectionately.)

The Galahad of now, however, doesn’t seem interested in playing along. He stands before Mordred quietly, his eyes flickering with the coming storm, for he is the eye of the hurricane. He is the violence of the pouring rain, the fury of the howling wind, as magic wraps itself around him like a second skin, close but not enough to touch.

In his eyes, Mordred can see hellfire, but it’s not the furious inferno that he had once seen. No, the hellfire in his eyes burns with a lost desperation, like a man fumbling in the darkness desperately looking for the light. 

 “Where is she?” Galahad asks softly. Navi flutters nervously by his side.

“She’s fine.” Mordred snaps. “I’m not like you. I look after my own!”

With a hasty incantation under his breath, Mordred hurls an << _earth shatter_ >> spell at Galahad. The ground rumbles dangerously underneath the traitor’s feet before crumbling into dust and giving way beneath him. Galahad’s hand shoots up to grab the nearest ledge, hastily pulling the old man back up, covered in dust.

“Where is she?” Galahad repeats, his voice ten degrees colder. At the silence that follows, he bellows, “She’s _injured_ , Mordred!” 

“She’s fine!” Mordred hurtles forward, swinging his sword downward and trying to cleave Jenkins’ head in two. A simple << _bind_ >> spell wraps itself around Jenkins’ leg in an attempt to keep the former knight in place. “Just die, old man!”

His sword kisses nothing but air.

Galahad’s pure, unadulterated fury is enough to shatter the spell keeping in place. “She’s _dying_ ,” Galahad roars, swatting the sword aside with magic alone. He closes the distance that Mordred has hastily put between them. “I have to save her.”

“You’ll first atone for your betrayal and your sins!” Mordred shoots back, firing a wild destruction spell. Galahad tilts his head, the spell barely missing his ear before slamming into a nearby tree that crumbles to ashes. Mordred calls more magic to him, trying to boost his abilities with _< <haste>>_ and _< <strength>>_ only to find magic abandoning him and flocking to Galahad instead.

“I’ll atone later,” Galahad replies quietly, and it sounds like a promise—but Mordred knows better than to listen to his promises. “Now, you’re in my way! Stand aside!”

“No!” With the last of his magic, Mordred erects another barrier between him and Galahad’s destination. (Aunt Morgan, he reminds himself, will be fine. She’ll be fine. She’s the kind of person who won’t die even you kill her.)

Galahad’s eyes darken. “I don’t want to kill you.” His voice just breaks. “Not again.”

And for a moment, he’s Galahad once again. The real one. The one that Mordred knew would have his back, would have done anything to just keep him safe.

_(“It’s part my duty.” Galahad gives him a warm smile, ruffling Mordred’s hair affectionately. “I’m here to guide you, you know.”_

_“Stop treating me like a kid then!” Mordred flushes, smacking Galahad’s hand away. “And don’t touch me so casually! I’m the **heir** of Camelot! You should call me, **your highness**!”_

_“Then act like it.” Galahad looks off into the distance, looking beyond the castle walls and at the war they both know is brewing in the distance. His smile fades just a little. “I’ll call you that when you’re ready, Mordred,” he says at last, “and you’re far from ready.”_

_“Then stop holding me back!” Mordred shouts. He has seen the battles, seen the scars, seen the destruction. The corruption is getting worse each day, and there’s nothing that anyone—not Aunt Morgan, not Uncle Merlin, not Viviane, not even Arthur—can do about it. If he is to be King, he needs to be able to protect his subjects, not cower in a castle like some craven._

_“I’m not a kid anymore!” Mordred snarls. “You’re just afraid that I’ll upstage you! You’ve been Camelot’s greatest knight for so long that you’re terrified of competition!” Mordred smashes a hand against the stone walls of the castle. “You should be afraid,” he sneers. “I’m stronger than you! I’m stronger than **all** of you!” _

_Galahad turns to fix him with an inscrutable expression on his face. “No. You’re not,” he replies with absolute certainty. He sounds almost…sad. “I am holding you back because it is my duty to make sure you become the great king I know you can be.”_

_“I already—“_

_“A great king is wise, and a wise king knows when to leave the battles to his generals.” Galahad’s voice is gentle. “A wise king also knows who he can trust.”_

_There’s something in Galahad’s voice that sends Mordred’s anger, burning hot, slinking off ashamed._

_Because Galahad is someone he can trust with **everything.** He can tell Galahad things he can’t even tell his mother or Aunt Morgan or even Arthur. _

_He can tell Galahad things he can’t even tell Agravaine._

_When he pictures himself as king, Mordred always envisions Galahad standing by his side._

_He suddenly feels very young and very foolish. “I’m sorry.” His cheeks burn with embarrassment that he could even think to accuse **Galahad** of jealousy and pride. He is the Grail Knight of Virtue, for God’s sake!   _

_“Not to worry.” Galahad’s smile is kind, even as his expression darkens. “War is hard on everyone.” Galahad reaches out to give Mordred’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “I’ll have your back through it all. I promise.”)_

So much for his promises, Mordred thinks ruefully. They burned like Camelot to ashes. 

“Then atone for your sins with your death! For you killing all of my men! For what you did to me! For what you did to Camelot!” Mordred brandishes his sword. “I’ve been waiting a thousand years for this!”

Galahad’s eyes _burn_. “Then wait a thousand more.”

The inferno in Galahad’s eyes transcends mere image to become reality. Fire, burning bright like stars, razes through his defensive barrier, rips through his wards, and levels an entire section of the forest. Galahad is just a blur of black amongst the forest green of the trees before he vanishes completely, Navi hot on his tail.

He doesn’t even give Mordred a second glance. (He probably doesn’t even think that Mordred warrants one.)

Mordred slams a nearby tree in frustration with his fist before drawing the last vestiges of magic in the area to try to pursue the traitor. He races to try to catch up, ignoring the pulsating headache he can feel brewing and his body screaming in agony as he overtaxes himself yet again.

It’s always been like this with Mordred always chasing his back. He can never catch up—not even when Galahad’s a decrepit, old man and hasn’t used magic in almost a century.

Mordred has trained in Hell for over a thousand years for the sole purpose of destroying him, and this is all he has to show for it.

The feelings of despair and disappointment are exactly as he remembered it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to what_is_next! Thanks so much for all your comments/reviews! They're super helpful and encouraging! You're really, really sweet! Thank you! :D
> 
> Sorry about the late update! I've been trying to make the next couple of chapters reasonably decent, and being a perfectionist, that turns out as well as you can expect. This is okay...I guess. Ezekiel's always interesting. I am very much in the camp that Ezekiel remembers things from the Point of Salvation, which serves as a nice mirror to Jenkins in this version. I'm kinda excited though. This fic is forcing me to finish up that Ezekiel & Jenkins plot bunny/spin off, so keep an eye out for that! It will be shorter and probably be pre-Rise and Fall-ish. 
> 
> I was planning to do the shipathon too and then life took over... I'm just trying to finish this now before Season 4 crushes my hopes and dreams the same way the 2nd to last episode S3 did. ...the tragedy of being a crack shipper I suppose... Plus I did not appreciate that episode, especially as someone who is huge fan of Journey to the West. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! As always, comments/opinions/concerns are always appreciated!


	7. the first rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Morgan plays teacher
> 
> -or-
> 
> The author sort of explains how our heroes got into this mess in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: for violence and some blood

There is nothing more terrifying in the world than a person living up to their reputation.

Apep has heard the rumors circulating around Morgan le Fay—the most powerful sorceress in the entire world, bloodthirsty, ruthless, brilliant, and devastatingly beautiful to a dangerous degree. She is, if the rumors are to be believed, the mastermind to the fall of Camelot and has left a trail of blood and chaos long enough that Apep has craved for thousands of years. 

The rumors, he discovers, make her look _tame_ compared to who she is in reality.

From the moment her feet touch the earth, Morgan le Fay is blazing with enough magic power that would make any immortal green with envy.

Magic curls around her fingertips as she storms toward their encampment. Morgan is all power—overwhelmingly radiant, like the sun, with pure magic emitting off her in waves. She looks so lovely like this, Apep notes, her red hair flying in the wind, brown eyes burning, smoldering, her lower lip trembling with barely contained rage.

Or laughter. He can’t quite tell with her.

All he knows is that he is currently suffering buyer’s remorse as he stares mutely at the best investment he could have ever made. Even though the chessboard has already been set up, he has half a mind to flip the board and start over with her as his centerpiece.

Apep watches Hector and his men futilely charge toward her, swords drawn, horses galloping at breakneck speeds. The cavalry races through the forest, encircling her as she continues to march forward.

“Halt, Lady le Fay in the name of Mordred, the one true king of Camelot!” Hector declares, apparently undaunted by the raw power building in her palms. The rest of the men, however, seem to be surveying her like she is a hungry dragon, seconds away from going for the jugular and tearing them all apart.

She looks thoroughly unimpressed, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “This is one way to greet a girl, Hector,” she notes wryly. “I see you’ve been taking lessons from Lancelot.”

Hector, for his part, gives her a sheepish shrug. “My apologies, Lady le Fay, but orders are orders.”

“From Mordred? I doubt that.” Morgan glances back at the ball of white light with wings fluttering by her shoulder—a light fairy, Apep presumes—and the fairy whizzes off as if searching for something. “His partner, I presume?” Her eyes flick to where Apep is watching the entire battle, her smile broadening. “How… _interesting_.”

Hector shifts uncomfortably on his horse. “I am asking you to stand down and peacefully surrender.”

“More like begging me,” Morgan remarks, arching a graceful eyebrow. “And we both know that I don’t surrender.” 

Hector chuckles, but Apep notes with a smirk, Mordred’s right-hand man is sweating quite profusely. “I thought it would be a polite way of putting single-handedly massacre.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” Morgan coos. The horses begin to stir, stomping and braying nervously. “Still, massacres got old after Boston. I prefer the term….” Her smile is so sharp it could cut glass, her eyes shine like stars. “Complete annihilation.”

“Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Hector smirks with much more confidence than he is surely feeling. “Come and try.”

Morgan shrugs. “Well, you did ask for it,” she laughs. Morgan snaps her fingers, gathering enough magic from the surrounding area to launch a wide-scale destructive spell.

It’s not fast enough though.

The sudden magical surge is enough to set off the trap that the mages had laid beforehand. Immediately, a defensive barrier shimmers blue around the entire army, protecting it from any large area spells and direct magical attacks.

The destruction spell dies on Morgan’s lips, the magic stilling on her hands. “Aw, that’s cute,” she coos. “What a boring textbook move, Hector.” Morgan doesn’t even blink as the mages begin hurling every manner of spell at her. Each hex seems be just inches from hitting her before it slams into an invisible barrier that just manages to hold.

“Mages, keep firing!” Hector commands. “Knights! Start casting!” Apep watches every single knight beginning to cast stat-increasing buffs, granting each enough increased strength, speed, and stamina that makes Apep raise an eyebrow. (He had heard that Camelot had been the golden age of magic, but he had thought the legends and the stories were just exaggerating.) 

No wonder Mordred hadn’t wanted to revive someone like Heracles.

Walking forward, magic slowly being drawn to her with every sure and steady step, Morgan continues, “I remember the days when you would just blindly charge forward. Kids sure grow up these days, don’t they?”

Hector frowns mid-spell. “I’m _older_ than you.”

Morgan waves away the finer details. “Well, one of us stayed alive much longer.”

“Not for much longer.” Hector’s eyes narrow. The army begins to spread out into teams, encircling her in a mobile formation.

“True.” Morgan grins. “What’s it like being a dead man walking?”

Before Hector even has time to reply, Morgan’s body vanishes into thin air before reappearing immediately in front of Hector. Hector manages to deflect her haphazard spell with a hasty swing of his sword. With a mighty roar, he sweeps his sword downward, only for his blade to connect to nothing.

Morgan reappears behind another knight. Her spell barely misses him as the knight twists out of the way, tripping and falling to the ground. Morgan is just about to finish him off when the archers from their vantage point begin firing. They let loose a furious barrage of arrows, each arrow locking onto Morgan’s magical signature, hurtling toward her with enough power to level an entire city.

Morgan is forced to bid a hasty retreat, vanishing from sight and reappearing from some distance away. She’s pushed back, maneuvering in mid-air to cause arrows to collide with one another and others to inflict a reign of terror on the knights and mages scattered around her. Every movement of hers is lightning-quick and precise, the wild magic flocking to her and obediently falling under her control. A few of the bolder mages begin to pursue her, vanishing as well, while the magic users that stay begin weaving more magical protection barriers around the remaining survivors.

“Regroup!” Hector cries, dragging an injured knight onto his horse with his free hand. “Take the injured to the heal—”

He’s cut off by an earth-shattering explosion. The very blast causes the surrounding barrier to shake. Smoke billows from the distance at the location where the healers were stationed. There’s only one magical signature left in that area, and it, of course, is hers.

A second explosion follows the first, this time by where the archers were positioned. She is a mere blip on the map, Apep senses, before her presence seems to evaporate.

Hector curses. “Take—“ He never gets to finish that thought. A moment later, they go the way of their comrades and perish not with a whimper but with a resounding bang.

Apep himself is knocked back in the blast, slamming into the nearest tree. Head spinning and seeing stars, Apep can’t quite seem to get his bearings as he struggles to his feet and failing miserably. It’s not his fault that his host’s body is weak. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all, and even omnipotent Gods fall on hard times sometimes.

Still, Apep is glad that Ra has retired from the mortal realm to the heavenly dimension, or else, he’d _never_ hear the end of it from his idiot brother.

In the end, he manages to ungracefully get on his feet. Examining the destruction, Apep sighs heavily at the so-called army Mordred had revived. If their fate was to be the same as his and Mordred’s, Apep muses, he really doesn’t want to stick around for much longer. Why is it so _hard_ to get good help these days?

“There you are.” Morgan appears from the shadows, her incisors of her smile glitter dangerously. “So you’re my nephew’s newest partner in crime.” She pauses. “You’re a lot shorter than I thought you’d be,” Morgan adds cheerfully. “I guess that’s what happens when you’re stuck in a box for over a thousand years!”

He can feel his face just twitching. First her nephew… Now her… Insolence, it seems, really does run in the genes. “It is a _sarcophagus_!”

“Adorable,” Morgan laughs, and Apep can’t decide if he should be annoyed or amused. (Laughter toward a God is blasphemy but she did have a very nice laugh…) “Now box boy—“

“ _Sarcophagus_ **_God_**!” he stubbornly corrects.

“—where is that stupid fool of mine?”

Apep decides to play dumb. “Mordred?” he asks innocently.

The temperature of her expression drops twenty degrees. Before Apep can even move, she has weaved another spell under her breath. In a moment, he’s choking on nothing and everything and he’s beginning to feel a little light-headed. It’s like she’s brutally stabbing pins and needles in every single cell imaginable. His vessel is screaming out in agony, and Apep has to agree with that sentiment—because Ma’at be damned, this _hurts_.

If it didn’t hurt so much, he’d be impressed.

She looks down on his writhing form, her eyes blazing. “I suggest you stop playing dumb before my patience runs out. Where is—” She cuts off when the light fairy hurtles back and frantically whispers something in her ear. Morgan stares at the light fairy, dumbstruck.

The magic tearing him apart suddenly stills. Apep collapses onto the ground, facedown. Crossing his fingers that he’s lucky (really _, really_ , ** _really_** lucky—as in killing Ra lucky), he might just be able to draw enough magic to himself and cast a wide-range revival spell on Mordred’s fallen army.

It’s just going take a while. 

Thankfully, Morgan’s attention is elsewhere. “He’s not even here. You have _got_ to be kidding me, Navi,” Morgan says at last.

The light fairy shrugs. “Well, I’m not.”

“How did that boy manage to ignore _everything_ we’ve ever taught him to make a stupid, convoluted plan like this!” Morgan seethes, sending magic rippling through the barriered off area. It disturbs Apep’s spell enough that he has to start over from the beginning. “I am going to _kill_ my nephew.” A pause. “Then I’m going revive him just so I can kill him _again_!”

“Technically, that’s nepoticide,” Navi remarks dryly. At the downright murderous look on Morgan’s face, Navi adds, “But I understand your sentiment.”

Turning to Apep, Morgan gives him a little wave. “Wish we could have played for longer, box boy, but I have some family matters to take care of—namely, beating some sense into my dimwitted nephew.”

Apep gives her a friendly wave back.

She’s going to be back, he knows. For all her power and skill, Morgan le Fay had lost the moment she had stepped foot in the barrier. He had modified Mordred’s plan himself—Apep is not about to lose the opportunity to pick her brain for her magical knowledge and experience to the fullest. 

She snaps her fingers, enveloping herself and the fairy in magic, and disappears into thin air.

Apep patiently continues to finish the spell while he waits for the barrier to do its job.

It does. Morgan reappears, clutching her side. She’s breathing heavily, blood dripping from her abdomen, her magical power drained. Sweat beads on her forehead, dripping down her face. It looks like she took the brunt of the blowback from the anti-transportation spell for the light fairy, who appears unharmed.

“I take it the barrier’s additional anti-transportation spell was my nephew’s idea.” Apep neither confirms nor denies such allegations, but he has to admit this is a nice surprise as a decent return for this particular investment. Morgan continues on mockingly, “How many artifacts did you waste making that?”

“Only ten,” Apep replies defensively. They were weak artifacts too. Nothing wrong in investing somewhat valuable resources for this payoff. The revival spell he has been so patiently waiting for is finally complete, and he easily summons Mordred’s once dead army and returns them back to the living.

Morgan takes one look at said army and waves her hand. Without a barrier to protect them like last time, the once proud army is all reduced to ashes. Her magical signature still shines bright like a star, and Apep finally realizes what Mordred somehow did earlier—that this is going to be a long, bloody war of attrition and not one of skill. 

In short, a pain in the ass.

Apep seizes the opportunity, hurtling a quick << _demise javelin >> _at her. Morgan raises a hand and freezes the destructive javelin in place.

“Navi.”

The light fairy flutters to Morgan’s side. “Yes?”

“I have a mission for you.” Morgan’s expression is the softest that Apep has ever seen it—that is, until she decides to hurl the javelin back at him. Apep leaps out of the way, tumbling to the ground. Behind him, the tree that the javelin embedded itself into begins to rot and decay. “Tell that fool of mine to come get me.”

Navi’s brow furrows. “Can’t you—“

Apep hurls another spell that Morgan deflects absently with a wave of her hand. “Not with the magic drain spell in place.” Morgan gives her a reassuring smile. “Besides, it’s all part of the plan.” 

“Please tell me that plan involves not dying.” Morgan winks at that, and Navi sighs heavily, as if the two of them have been through this before. “The things I do for you, Morgan...”

“I know, I know.” Morgan chuckles good-naturedly. “I’ll make it up to you later!”

“You better!” Navi vanishes. This time, she doesn’t return. Apep figures the fairy must have used a fairy ring to escape, but no matter. Reinforcements won’t change the outcome, for there simply isn’t enough time.

The God of Chaos and Destruction is _not_ about to lose to some jumped-up, upstart semi-immortal—even if she was the greatest witch in the world. It’s simple math—a God is always greater than a semi-immortal.

“Careful, child.” Apep smirks, magic gathering in his hands. “You are dealing with powers far greater than you have ever known.”

“Spare me the dramatics, box boy,” Morgan scoffs. She’s blazing, her magical signature bright enough to eclipse the sun, the moon, and all the stars in the sky. “I see more powerful beings when I look in the mirror.”

“Let’s see if you live up to that reputation of yours then!” Apep releases the destruction magic he has saved, tearing the entire area to shreds. Uprooted trees and rocks circle around the entire area before an explosion captures them both.

—

—

In the hours that they have been fighting, they have finally reached a stalemate.

He hasn’t been able to scratch her once. Mordred or Hector or someone had told him that she had been once called Camelot’s strongest shield, and she more than exceeds that expectation. Nothing he throws at her can get past her barriers—when they even manage to hit, that is.

Morgan le Fay seems to walk on the wind, vanishing and reappearing in mere seconds, just barely dodging and twisting past his spells before launching a devastating attack of her own. In this mortal body, even Apep can’t keep up with her cast speed, just doing enough avoid his vessel from sustaining too many injuries. 

Still, Morgan’s losing more and more magic power by the second, the magic drain barrier finally beginning to take its toll. She has accommodated for the decreased strength, Apep is sure, but it is only a matter of time when that the surrounding magic won’t be enough to compensate for her weakness. At that point she’ll be forced to lower her impenetrable barriers and this foolish exercise will be over and Apep will be able to twiddle his thumbs until Mordred finishes up with Galahad. 

“You should quit now while you’re ahead.” Apep bats her spell easily away with a wave of his hand. It lacks the same weight that it used to before. “You’ll die if you keep using magic at this rate.” He laughs. “I heard you were a survivor, not a woman with a death wish.”

He throws another _< <demise javelin>> _at her. The magical spear hurls past her wards to connect to the witch’s midsection, only for her body to vanish into thin air. An illusion! Apep tries to trace her magical signature, but the magic of the barrier is preventing him from getting an accurate idea.

“Boo.” Morgan le Fay rematerializes in front of him, flinging a spell that smashes into his face. Apep is forced to the ground onto his knees. Gritting his teeth, Apep fights through the pain and summons a squadron of undead soldiers.

Morgan is forced to put distance between the two of them as the soldiers charge her, swords drawn. They smash their swords against her wards wildly. Apep can see her shields beginning to crack just a little under the weight of their blades. He flings a _< <demise javelin>>_ at her.

This time, it tears through her shields.

Morgan launches herself to the side, barely managing to dodge the spear. The undead soldiers charge her again. She pushes them and Apep back with a gust of wind, pinning them all to the ground. She clenches her hand together and Apep’s undead soldiers are crushed by wind to become nothing but dust and chunks of bones. Apep can feel his vessel twisting and turning in agony as Morgan’s magic begins to crush him to bits.

If this keeps up, he realizes with a trickle of fear, he is going to die.

No choice then. Apep calls upon his powers in the Heavenly Domain, praying to his sealed form to grant him the strength to defeat her. He feels the rush of magical energy flooding his earthly bound form. Magic blazes to life in his hands, freeing him from the confines of her magic.

The curses Morgan mutters under her breath are enough to make even _Apep_ want to blush. ...though that may be for different reasons than what mere mortals would expect. 

Even like this, she is still so beautiful in her white-hot fury. What little magic she has pools in her hands, burning and beautiful. She’s hot—literally and figuratively.

She is a fire, and she is about to burn out.

Sweat is beading at her brow, and her breaths are short and winded. She is bleeding out, slowly and steadily. Her once brilliant blaze of magic has dimmed to just burning embers. It’s impressive that she can actually stand at this point.

They both know what will happen when her powers hit zero.

“I’ve won, Morgan le Fay.” There is no way she’ll be able to continue and live in this state. If she lives up to her reputation as a ruthless survivor, she will just give up. She’s already on the floor, finally unable to even stand. “You’ve _lost_. Are you going to be a good girl for me and behave now?”

If the hurled _< <immolate>>_ spell she threw at him is any indication, Apep reasonably assumes that her answer is a very hard no.

“I think you’re mistaken.” She laughs, her eyes dark and dangerous. “You’re the one who’s lost.”

“I’m not the one bleeding to death,” Apep points out dryly. Silly semi-immortals and their delusions of grandeur. They’re still somewhat mortal, after all, and they may not be able to die, but they can be killed.

Semi-immortals have a nasty tendency to forget that part.

Morgan taps her nose knowingly. “Ah, but I’m not the one who forgot the first rule of a magic battle.”

Apep’s eyes narrow. “And what’s that?”

Morgan’s smirk widens as what’s left of the forest around them erupts in flames. “Save your trump card for the very end.”

The barrier surrounding the area shatters into a million pieces. Before he can even react, Apep is blasted back by a fast-moving blur that barrels through his shields. Apep smashes to the ground, his vessel’s weak body screaming out in pain as the fall breaks his arm and leg. Dazed, Apep can barely scramble to his hands and knees as he mutters a healing spell and waits for his bones right themselves.

“You!” Apep’s eyes widen when he sees the face of his attacker. Galahad is still an old man, but he seems… different. The “Galahad” he had met in Canada was only slightly better than a mere mortal, but this Galahad is overflowing with magic, destruction and creation dancing in his hands.

All of heaven and earth cannot stop this Galahad. No wonder Satan fears him so much. 

The first rule indeed, Apep thinks ruefully. He smirks. Quite a good trump card to keep up one’s sleeve.

(He can’t wait to make that trump card _his_.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update. Being a real person is tough.... :( 
> 
> Anyway, the Morgan vs. Apep battle that no one ever asked for but got (I guess?). No offense to the show, but the magic that people tend to cast is super-slow and too campy for real combat. Production costs, I know, but since this is fanfiction, I decided to speed it up a bit! ;D
> 
> I've upgraded Apep's powers because only possessing people is a little sad for a God of Chaos that nearly destroyed the world--even if his power is sealed. The poor snek boy should still be able to cast mid-tier to upper-tier destruction/chaos spells... in my opinion anyway. Morgan's also a little bit more aggressive than she was back at the STEM fair because she has to be. Facing a God instead of a bunch of LITs and a Guardian means that she can't hold back as much. 
> 
> In terms of magic battles, I am going to be playing around with melee battles because they're more interesting than just having people throw spells at each other. Writing action scenes are a little tiring. Still cheaper than producing it in real life! 
> 
> Anyway, this was kind of fun just because Morgan, in my head, is a snarky sorceress. Back in the old days, I can see her being a Grade-A troll. If I ever get around to making those Camelot Chronicles of mine, you can be sure she cockblocked Lancelot and Guinevere with magic lol. (Jenkins probably helped her!) 
> 
> I keep seeing a lot of fics where they make her evil or a straight up b**ch, but I've always envisioned her as a cutthroat person who wants to win and survive and will do so through any means necessary. She will do terrible things to achieve her goals, which seems evil, but she's really just being pragmatic about the entire situation. She's doesn't do things for the sake of being evil; it's a matter of survival. She'll be vindictive, maybe, if she's trying to get revenge, but she's not going to sacrifice everything for the sake of revenge. 
> 
> As always, let me know any of your comments/concerns/opinions! I always love to hear them! :D


	8. interlude ii: the dead knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which what's dead is never truly gone

The dead knight’s fury is overwhelming, bringing his body to a fever pitch. Jenkins sees Mordred and he can barely hold the dragon’s rage back. The wrath, the fear, the powerlessness, and the soul crushing disappointment comes rushing back. It’s the kind of fire that burns away mercy, the kind of darkness that drowns good men and turns them cruel. 

Hellfire licks his fingertips, the scales of justice floating just within reach of his mind’s eye. He can enact His Judgement now, but he _can’t_. The boy is everything he has dedicated his life to protecting against. He is no longer one of the living, but is one of the dead, and the dead must not linger with the living. The boy is a traitor. Murderer. And yet…

He still loves him.

The dead knight and Jenkins both, the _best_ parts of them, the part of his heart that is still untouched by the flames and were worthy of the titles and accolades and honors the dead knight once held, doesn’t want to watch the boy fade to nothing but dust and ash.

The dead knight killed him once. Jenkins can’t do it again.

Jenkins is already moving forward at the first opportunity. It’s all he _can_ do, especially when he can’t stand to look back. Not at the boy he once loved, the boy he had trained, the boy he would have sworn his undying fealty towards for forever and a day.)

She is forward, and she is all that he has left.

Tight bands have wrapped around his chest, squeezing him, paining him every time he makes a choice to try to draw air in. The dragon is roaring in his ears, its flames fanning the hellfire in his heart. _Is she safe? Is she alive?_ it demands, thrashing.

Jenkins reaches out and tries to find her, but only the darkness answers.

 _(“Everything dies,”_ the darkness laughs, its glowing eyes glittering _. “Even stars burn out.”)_

The cold fear has wormed its way into his chest, burrowing deeper, strangling him. It threatens to freeze his strength, as he drowns alone in the dark.

But when he sees her, injured, tired, but still _alive_ , he can finally _breathe_.

He can hear the smug smirk in her voice. “Save your trump card for the very end.”

From beyond the veil, across the river on the other side, the dead knight laughs—because that’s his cue. All his fears and all his doubts shrivel in flame.

Jenkins tears through the barrier, ripping through it and tossing it aside. He tosses the weakened God aside like a rag doll as he rushes to her side.

She’s pale and fragile in his arms, fluttering just before crossing that dark river to the other side. He pulls her back to the shore, back _home_. The magic from the lay lines creeps from his fingers to snake around her, tentatively intertwining itself with her own power, glowing gently like starlight. He works to stabilize her powers that are fluctuating from the barrier he has just tossed aside.

“You look awful,” he says at last, his smile graphite-soft instead of diamond-hard. 

She grins back, her eyes shining. “Only because you’re late.”

He scoffs, “I’m right on time.”

“ _Early_ is on time,” she corrects with mock-indignation. “You’re _late_.”

He can’t help but smile. (It’s just like old times.)

“You!” Jenkins hears Apep cry out in the distance, enraged. Fortunately for the God of Chaos, Jenkins isn’t allowed to kill him according to His Judgement, but that doesn’t mean the dead knight won’t make him _burn._

The dragon’s fury and his own rage send Apep tumbling back. A snap of his fingers sets the God on fire. Apep’s shrieks are a melody, the flames the chorus, and the percussion his indomitable wrath. The darkness cackles in his mind, its glowing eyes smiling _‘You are just like me.’_

Maybe he is.

“Galeas.” Morgan’s hand brushes his cheek. The hellfire that consumes him stills and the darkness is silenced. For a brief moment, the dead knight isn’t quite as dead as Jenkins would like to believe. “Let’s go home.”

Jenkins can feel her blood beginning to stain his shirt.

( _“Let’s go home, Galeas,” she whispers, dying._ )

He pushes those thoughts away.

(Because she’s _here_ , she’s _real_ and she’s going to be _okay_. That’s enough. That’s always been enough. It _has_ to be enough.)

He forces a serene smile on his face, even as the dragon rears its ugly head. “As you wish, my lady.”

Jenkins calls more wild magic to him, boosting his abilities to far beyond that of an elderly mortal man’s. He races away, Morgan tightly clenched in his arms. They’re walking on wind, blowing past Mordred and the undead army that Apep is surely summoning.

The dragon sneaks through the cracks of his defenses, crawls up and chews at the inside of his skull. It whispers with its furnace breath of what he has lost, of what he will lose, before it sets what’s left of his heart on fire.

“You’re slower than usual,” Morgan comments lightly, her eyes sparkling. Her laughter is soft, tender, like starlight. Old habits die hard, it seems, and even now, in the midst of another harrowing situation, she laughs at death and he can’t help but snark with her.

It’s the dead knight’s voice that instinctively replies. The dragon slinks back underneath the darkness as he laughs. “Or _someone_ just got heavier.”

She smirks. “Or _someone_ got older.”

“Or wiser,” he corrects, grinning in spite of everything. Magic is rapidly being drained from the area. Jenkins won’t be able to keep this pace up for long, not in this form, not with his own magic sealed far, far away.

They should make it—barely, if nothing went amiss.

He _hates_ ifs.  

“Please, Galeas.” Morgan rolls her eyes. “You haven’t changed… except for the wrinkles, of course.”

She looks at him, and his heart breaks. His entire world looks at him, with her brown eyes twinkling, her smile sincere, and he realizes just how close he is to losing her. (If he had been by her side in the first place, this would have **_never_** happened.) The dragon may be dormant once again, but the fear is still there, burning and ice-cold, reflected in her eyes.

“And you haven’t changed at all,” he whispers.

Even _he_ can’t tell who answered her—the dead knight or the shadow of his former self.

Her hands find familiar handholds around his neck as she leans in closer. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

He had once told Colonel Baird to get her, whatever the cost, and he will _always_ do the same.

“Naturally.” They’re nothing but a blur streaking through the forest.

She’ll make it, he assures himself, as long as everything goes according to plan. He will make sure of it.

It’s a promise, he and the dead knight both know, and it’s a promise that he will keep.

That is—until he senses four _very_ familiar presences in the forest. _For the love of—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'll throw in the next chapter soon once I finish edit number 5, take 7. ...the tragedy of being a perfectionist, I suppose. It's super long as of now. I'm sorry. Hopefully, it'll be worth it? 0.0
> 
> As always, questions/comments/concerns are always welcome. :D


	9. of mice and men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Murphy's Law is in full effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: violence and some blood

Nothing is going according to plan.

Oh sure, the Librarians’ return to Cornwall is uneventful. For all of Jenkins’s wanting them to remain in the Annex, the place doesn’t look any different from when they last came here today. There’s no doomsday storm raging above them or cackling villain or even DOSA.  

No, Cornwall, Eve decides, looks normal…or as normal as a place can get with out of control lay lines.

Of course, things then decide to go pear-shaped.

It doesn’t start when Ezekiel and Cassandra nearly drop the explosives and sent them all to Kingdom Come, or when Jacob trips and manages to pass through the area that the barrier once stood, or even when Eve herself accidentally butt-dials her old mentor General Rockwell of all people and has to talk with a motor-mouth so fast that _Flynn_ would be impressed.

No, it starts like how most of the hijinks they get into go—quiet and then chaos all at once. One moment, they’re walking as carefree as you can please, the next, everything is going to hell.

Literally.

That’s generally what happens when explosive magic rains down on an unsuspecting forest.

“Get down!” Eve forces her charges to the ground, covering them. She clenches her eyes shut as she feels the burning heat of a nearby explosion. As the dust begins to settle, Eve lets out a sigh of relief before she reluctantly gets off the Librarians.

She runs a hand through her disheveled hair. “Everyone—“

“Down!” In instant, Ezekiel pulls her back down in the nick of time as another barrage of explosions rain down upon them. The percussive blasts ring in her ear. She can feel the earth rumbling, shattering, as the bombardment continues to shower them with destruction. They manage to take cover behind a fallen tree, but it’s a ticking time bomb.

The Librarians are the smartest people in the world, but not even the smartest people can defend against earth and steel and shrapnel forever.

“Any ideas?” she manages to shout over the bangs and booms.

“Not dying sounds good!” Ezekiel snaps, his eyes already scouting the nearby area for a more defensive position.

“Any _useful_ ideas?” Eve corrects.

“Make a run for it?” Jacob suggests. “Can’t be any more dangerous than staying here.”

“Especially with the explosions,” Ezekiel adds, shaking the containers of their own explosives helpfully. “Cassandra?”

Cassandra looks at him. “We could use magic—“

“ ** _No magic!_** ” Jacob growls.

Eve is inclined to agree, but a shield spell is sounding better and better right now as the blasts become closer and closer to their hiding spot.

“Now’s not the time for the moral high ground, cowboy!” Ezekiel shouts. Fate seems to prove his point when the ground just ten feet from them detonates with the force that causes the entire earth to shake. “Throw up a shield spell, Cassandra!”

“On it!” Cassandra furrows her brow in concentration. “ _Contego, servo, vindico, protego_!" A wave of her hands casts a soft lavender barrier to shimmer around them. The nearby volley of projectiles smashes against the shield. The magical safeguard just trembles, but it holds steadfast and true.

“How are we supposed to run now, Sherlock?” Jacob demands, glaring at Ezekiel. “We’re trapped _in_ the stupid shield!”

“Better than getting blown up!” Ezekiel snaps.

“Well—“

“Guys!” Cassandra frowns, trying to maintain the shield around them. “Trying to concentrate!”

Both of them look remorseful. “Sorry.”

“Eve?” Cassandra looks to Eve. “What should we do?”

For once, Eve doesn’t have a plan B or a plan C—or even a plan A. The idea to run as fast and far as they can _was_ her plan. She looks out into the distance and just sees more blasts and more explosions and fire and flames, and she knows that plan is stupid.

But she is a Guardian first, a soldier second, and she will get them out of here alive—stupid plan or not.

Eve forces the worry from her face. “Can you move the shield with us?”

Cassandra’s face scrunches up in concentration. The barrier around them wavers before it remains stubbornly in place. “It’ll take a while,” she admits quietly. “The explosions are too strong and the magic here is…weird.”

“Yeah.” Ezekiel looks back at the direction where the door is. “It’s like someone’s draining the magic in this entire area. There’s not enough here that we can use to move the shield.”

“Okay…” Eve crosses her fingers for plan B. “Think we can take out the explosions?”

Ezekiel closes his eyes before shaking his head. “Automated long-distance range spells. Those won’t stop, and whatever power or focus they have is around a mile away. We won’t be able to stop them, unless you have a magical shotgun or something…” he trails off hopefully.

Eve stares blankly at him.

“Right.” Ezekiel glances at Jacob and Cassandra. “Any other bright ideas?”

“They could always run out of magic,” Jacob points out. “Power, focus, effect. No power, no effect.”

“That’s not going to happen, unfortunately.” Cassandra frowns as the shield shifts by millimeters. “Whoever’s doing this has a lot of magic to spare. It’s probably why they were siphoning off the nearby lay lines with the barrier in the first place. More magic, more boom.”

“Okay…” Years of training are the only thing keeping Eve from entering full-blown panic mode. “We could always call Jenkins for help,” she suggests. In this situation, they desperately need a tank—semi-immortal or otherwise. “He’d probably know some way to stop this.”

“Hey! Listen!” a sharp, annoying voice yells out. A ball of light speeds over to them, wings frantically flapping. “Galahad’s a bit busy, but he sent me to help!”    

Jacob gapes at the glowing ball with wings. “What the—”

“A light fairy!” Cassandra squeals in delight.

Ezekiel frowns at the ball of light. “Who are you?”

“Navi!” the ball of light chirps. “I’d give you the long, epic story about how Galahad and I go way back, but no time for that! Let’s get you guys home! Morgan?”

In the shadows, Eve sees a familiar flash of red hair and smile that could kill. Immediately, Eve’s firearm pointing directly at a very disheveled looking Morgan le Fay.

“Could you put that toy away?” Morgan sighs, tiredly waving the gun out of Eve’s hand. “We both know that doesn’t work.”

As much as Eve would love to trade barbs and actually shoot the sorceress (for _real_ this time!), another blast nearly rips through whatever magic shield that Cassandra cast.

“Tic-toc, Librarians, Guardian.” Morgan examines her nail, flicking off imaginary dust. “Do you want our help or not?”

Jacob’s eyes narrow. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch?” Morgan’s eyes glimmer. “Don’t worry your little head about it, Librarian. You’ll find out… _later_.”

“No,” Eve snarls, stepping in front of the Librarians, her finger itching on the trigger. “ _Now._ ”

Morgan’s eyes flick to the woods as the explosions grow louder and louder and Eve can start hearing screams, one of them sounding familiar. The smile on Morgan’s face fades. “ ** _Later,_** ” she says with a tone of finality. Morgan’s hands begin to glow, causing runes to appear beneath their feet.

In an instant, Eve can feel a heavy pull in her gut as they’re catapulted into the air, launching past the miles of forest they had just trekked and landing ungracefully feet away from the door. As she runs forward, Ezekiel races past her, dragging Cassandra and Jacob with him as he shoves the door open.

Instead of seeing the Annex, they only see forest and more forest on the other side.

Ezekiel has his phone out in an instant, frantically trying to reprogram the door. “Something’s messing with the portal! I can’t get a steady connection.”

“Let me see.” Morgan glances over Ezekiel’s shoulder, frowning before turning to place a hand on the door. “Looks like box boy’s oscillating the magical signature preventing your door from getting an accurate focus.”

“Can we stabilize it then?” Cassandra asks. She walks over to look at the app over Ezekiel’s other shoulder. “Use a magical blast of some sort to disrupt the interference?” She snaps her fingers excitedly. “We have the explosives! We could detonate them and convert their energy to magic to refocus the door!”

Morgan stares at her. “Darling, that process alone would kill three of you, even with an artifact.”

“But you could do it.” Ezekiel frowns, his eyes burning. “You’re the most powerful sorceress in the world. If you can’t do it, no one else can.”

“Can you do it?” Cassandra asks.

Morgan, for once, is noticeably quiet. The answer, Eve realizes with a sinking feeling in stomach, is probably no.

The silver ring on Morgan’s finger glows a bright sapphire blue. As if on cue, a very blue tornado skids to a stop in front of them. As the wind begins to settle down and the dust somewhat clears, Eve can barely make out the familiar bow tie.

“Jenkins?” Eve calls, frowning. “You okay?”

“Do I look **_okay?_** ” Eve knows that voice—it’s Jenkins’s personal blend of what-special-hell-am-I-in-to-have-these-fools-blighting-my-work lovingly combined with how-did-I-get-stuck-with-these-idiots and an affectionate _goddamnit_ for good measure.

His suit is torn in a few places. Crimson drips from his cut lip and the silver sword he holds clenched tightly in his hands.

As his eyes meets Morgan’s, worry lines his brow. Eve can only now just make out the blood heavily dripping from the sorceress’s side and the flicker of something darker flickering onto Jenkins’s face. He is by her side in an instant, his eyes flicking from her to the door back to her.

“Stop looking at me like it’s my funeral, Galeas.” Morgan’s smile is almost soft. “I won’t die from a scratch.”

“Everything dies,” he replies, an inferno blazing in his eyes.

Morgan laughs, the wind chuckling in hers, “Not today.” 

They don’t say a word. It’s a silent argument told in raised eyebrows and pursued lips and careful glances and clenched fists. Something passes between them—magic perhaps—that seems to bind them together with a tie stronger than just a simple red string.

There is history there, quiet but deep, like the river that’s running just nearby, a trickle of rain that becomes the ocean. (“In my experience, you don’t quite hate strangers that much,” she had once told him, and he had remained pointedly silent.)

“Sorry to intrude, but we’ve got places to go, people to see.” Navi looks smug… or as smug as a ball of bright white light can possibly be. Either way, Navi does **_not_** look sorry at all. “That dumb Egyptian God and an even dumber idiot are coming in a minute.” Navi nudges Morgan pointedly. “Some _plan_ , Morgan.”

“You’re going to love this one then.” Morgan grins as Jenkins advances forward, sword in hand. “Think you can stall them, _old man_?”

Jenkins stares at her, dumbstruck, before his face slowly breaks into a laugh, and the darkness seems to melt away. He looks less like the ornery Caretaker and more like the smiling knight he must have surely been.

“You’re _older_ than I am, you know,” he says wryly. His sword slices incoming spells into dust.

“But I’m younger at heart!” Morgan retorts cheekily as she begins to weave runes around them. “Navi!”

“On it!” Navi zooms forward, casting a golden shield around them. In an instant, more volleys of darkness come creeping out of the forest, walloping the barrier. The percussive blows smash and slam, echoing in the unnatural silence. 

Eve sees a flash of silver as a man bursts out of the undergrowth, huffing and out of breath, with eyes blazing with self-righteous fury. He’s just a boy, she realizes, younger than Jacob, barely Ezekiel’s age, boy whose imposing armor seems to be too large for his body. 

“Galahad!” The boy draws his sword, snarling, charging forward.

Jenkins sounds sad. “Mordred.”

Eve hears the small gasp from Jacob. “He’s supposed to be dead. Why isn’t he dead?” Jacob asks incredulously.

“Magic?” Cassandra turns to give Morgan a glance.

“Don’t look at me.” Morgan rolls her eyes as more and more runes begin to carve themselves into the ground, glowing with a golden light. “I had nothing to do with this. For once.”

“Right…” Jacob scoffs. “And we’re supposed to _trust_ you?”

“Well, seeing as I am currently trying to get you all home in one piece, I would hope you did.” Morgan winces, grabbing her side. “And do be quiet. It’s difficult enough to try to rip open a temporary wormhole _without_ your idiotic blathering.” 

Navi sighs. “I hate babysitting.”

“Hey!”

Eve has half a mind to ream out Jenkins before turning to Morgan and her annoying light fairy friend, but the Caretaker seems just a little busier than usual. Jenkins and Mordred are mere shadows as they whirl around, swords flashing. Jenkins’s binds Mordred’s blade, pushing the boy back. He may be old, but he more than makes up for it with raw experience and talent. Jenkins knocks the blade out of Mordred’s hands, looks at the rusted blade disappointedly. 

“Your sword is a reflection of your soul,” Jenkins says quietly.

He doesn’t have to say anything more.

“Shut up!” Mordred hurls lighting at them all, but a swipe of Jenkins’s blade slices it in half. “This is all your fault! _All_ of this!”

Eve can only see Jenkins’s back. She wonders what he looks like. “It is.”

“Things are different now.” Mordred begins to glow with a golden light, calling more magic to him. “I’m no longer that scared little boy! I am the rightful King of Camelot, and I will not be defeated by the likes of you!” Mordred directs the golden light toward them, the very air crackling with energy, burning with the heat of a thousand suns.

Jenkins’s blade pushes back against the blast, sending it hurtling off into the distance. He charges toward the boy, ducking under the boy’s wave of magic to swipe at his legs. Mordred leaps up into the air, summoning more lightning into his hands. He hurtles the bolt at Jenkins. The old man only narrowly rolls out of the way. The thunder rumbles as the lightning bolt leaves a smoking crater where Jenkins once stood.  

“Apep!” Mordred shouts. “Now!”

“That’s **_MASTER_** to you!” a disembodied sounding voice retorts crossly.

Jenkins’s eyes widen as the shadows seem to reach out and bind him in place. Eve can just make out a man standing far away, hand outstretched and muttering what she thinks is a spell under his breath.

“What did you always say?” Mordred raises his sword, preparing for the finishing blow. “Save your trump card until the very end!” He swings the blade down, only for the clang of metal to drown out the shouts of dismay from the Librarians and herself.

Jenkins sword kisses Mordred’s fiercely as his arm fights against the darkness trapping it, the shadows cutting into his skin. He throws off the binding spell with a roar. His foot connects to Mordred’s stomach, sending the boy flying back and slamming into a tree with a brutal crack.

“Not bad for an old man, I suppose.” The man from the shadows comments lightly, his earlier annoyance disappearing. As he steps into the light, Eve can see the characteristic blackened eyes of a human being possessed by the Egyptian God of Chaos. “I still don’t quite see why so many of my kind are terrified of you, though.”

The fire in Jenkins eyes flares into an inferno. “You’ll learn.”

“Probably not—if your best friend has anything to say about it.” Apep’s grin threatens to split his host’s face. A snap of his fingers causes an envelope to materialize in front of Jenkins. “He says, hello, by the way, Galahad.”

Jenkins opens the envelope, scanning the letter briefly before it bursts into flames into his hands.

He vanishes in an instant, emerging from the shadows behind Apep, sword flashing. Apep just ducks underneath his blade. He sends a shadowy javelin hurtling toward Jenkins. Jenkins catches the javelin in his hand, flying forward and driving it into Apep’s shoulder. Apep screams, trying to get away. 

“That’s how my _real_ best friend says hello,” Jenkins remarks lightly, twisting the blade deeper. Beside Eve, Morgan’s smirk softens into a smile.

Jenkins’s sword slices into Apep’s leg, severing muscle from bone. He dodges Apep’s spell, vanishing and stabbing the God once again with all the force and fury Eve never knew Jenkins had in him.

It ends when Apep unleashes a blast of magic that forces the Caretaker to leap back. "You owe him a favor. You did promise him, friend or not, Galahad, and good knights keep their promises, don't they?"

Jenkins laughs humorously. "I was never a good knight."

“ _Liar!_ ” Mordred, still reeling, flies forward, unleashing a furious barrage of blows to Jenkins’s guard. Jenkins fends him off, only to nearly lose his leg to a well-aimed magical whip by Apep.

 “How much longer, Morgan?” Jenkins demands, as he’s slowly pushed back from the force of Mordred’s fury. In the midst of the chaos, Jenkins only just deflects the fanged serpent of darkness Apep has sicced on him. Jenkins’s face is pale. He’s huffing and puffing, old age finally beginning to show as the battle wears on and on.

Morgan frowns, calculating. “Fifteen...”

Jenkins ducks under Mordred’s sword, beating away the blade, only to nearly get smashed into the nearest tree by Apep’s wave of shadow energy. “Seconds?” he asks, hopeful.

“Minutes.”

Jenkins groans, blocking Mordred’s fist. His leg sweeps the boy off his feet, sending him sprawling to the ground. “Little slow, don’t you think?”

" _You_ were the one that upgraded the Annex!" Magic flares in Morgan’s hands as she continues with the painstaking process of what Eve assumes is ripping apart time and space.

Jenkins just misses getting maimed for long enough to point out accusingly. " _You_ were the one who needed a lift in the first place!"

Morgan rolls her eyes as she weaves more runes into the ground. “It’s _your_ children that put us in this situation!”

“It’s _your_ nephew that **_started_** it!” Jenkins shoots back, not missing a beat.

Morgan glares at him. “You know he’s not just _my_ nephew, Galeas.”

Mordred pauses, his head snapping back to glare at the Sorceress, shock dawning on his features. “Wait, Aunt Morgan…” He suddenly looks very young and very small. “I’m **_not_** your nephew?”

“No!” Jenkins and Morgan share a confused look before realization flickers on their faces. Morgan’s expression distinctly reminds Eve of the _‘you take this one’_ look her own mother used to give her father.

As if on cue, Jenkins is the one who answers. “Of course, you’re her nephew!” Jenkins smashes Mordred’s blade away, narrowly dodging Apep’s destructive spell again. “The idiocy… the short-temper… That’s all Pendragon genes.”

“I blame Lot for that, actually,” Morgan calls. 

Jenkins frowns. “Are you _sure_ he didn’t get it from Morgause?”

“Leave my mother out of this!” Mordred roars before Jenkins deflects one of Apep’s spells toward him and the boy ducks to the ground for cover.  

Morgan calls. “Well, he sure got all the recklessness from you!”

“That was all Arthur and Merlin’s doing!” Jenkins looks affronted at that. “I’m innocent!”

Morgan snorts disdainfully. “Ha!”

“Bullshit!” Mordred says from afar.

Two pairs of brown eyes glare at him. 

“ **Language!** ” both Morgan and Jenkins snap, and Mordred, even in his anger, has the decency to look somewhat contrite, as if this used to be a regular occurrence.

Eve fights back the urge to snark, _“Trying to kill each other is fine, hurting children is dandy, but saying a bad word, oh no, that’s **horrible** and worthy of reprimand.”_

She likes her head where it is, thank you very much.

Ezekiel, uncharacteristically however, doesn’t.

“Hey, Jenkins! Focus! Stop playing around with your girlfriend!” he calls. “I just want to go home!”

Jenkins does a double-take, glaring at the thief. “She’s not my _girlfriend!_ ”

“I’m not his _girlfriend!_ ” Morgan snaps, her runes flaring a bright red.

Mordred looks like he wants to be anywhere but here having this conversation. “My aunt is **_not_** that traitor’s girlfriend!” he seethes.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Apep remarks dryly before smashing spell after spell into Navi’s protective barrier. "You two sound awfully chummy." 

Oh, thank God _someone_ finally had the nerve to say it, Eve thinks, even if that someone is the embodiment of pure evil. She resists the temptation to say, “Called it!” (She’s had her suspicions ever since the science fair and Jenkins’s silence on the entire sorceress issue. Paths crossed, **_her foot!_** )

She doesn’t have much time to gloat. The shield doesn’t look like it will last much longer. As the barrier around them begins to crack, Eve decides to cut their losses and just get this awful day over with. “Cassandra! Shield!”

“ _Contego, servo, vindico, protego_!" Cassandra cries. The golden shield is reinforced by lavender, twisting together to make a light pink barrier that knocks away Apep’s spells. Jenkins surges forward, pushing the God back, Mordred hot in pursuit.

“Right…” Apep glances down at his bleeding shoulder, poking it experimentally, before turning his attention back to Jenkins. Even as the old man drives his sword into Apep’s stomach, the God doesn’t even blink. “As much as I enjoy the comedy show, this farce is about to end.”

Magic flares to life in the weakened God’s hand. In an instant, his wound heals, the blood clotting before flaking off to reveal skin as good as new. Even from behind the barrier, Eve can sense the shift in power, can see the raw magic flocking to Apep and Mordred in droves.

A blast of darkness sends Jenkins flying, his sword flying into the bushes. She can barely see Mordred as he races forward, not even a blurry outline but melting into the scenery. Jenkins screams in pain as Mordred’s sword bites into his leg before mauling his abdomen. His blade digs into Jenkins chest, drawing blood, smashing the Caretaker into a tree. Blood trickles out of the corner of Jenkins’s mouth, eyes wide with shock.

Ezekiel makes a move to go forward, a silver pen in hand, but Morgan holds him back with a flick of her fingers.

“Stay here,” Morgan says quietly, not at all sounding like that smug, giggling witch they all knew and loathed. “He’ll be fine.”

Ezekiel glowers at her, straining against invisible bonds. “How do you know that?” he snarls.

“Galeas is the greatest knight in the world.” She says it so convincingly that Eve almost believes that she _means_ it. “He won’t die, even if you kill him.”

Jacob gapes at her. “He just got _stabbed!_ ”

“He tends to get stabbed a lot,” Morgan remarks dryly. The runes beneath them begin to shine green and gold, finally ready. “Galeas!”

Their eyes meet.

Jenkins is immediately on the move, a crimson and blue haze. His hands wrap themselves around Mordred’s blade, tossing the sword aside. The boy’s fist connects to Jenkins’s cheek, but that doesn’t seem to slow the old man in the slightest. They hear the tell-tale crack of bones and the screams that tend to follow suit as Jenkins tosses the boy aside. The shadows seem to cling to Jenkins, engulfing him in darkness.

Out of the corner of her eye, Eve can see Apep shroud himself in darkness as he seems to about to cast the mother of all evil spells.

“Corruption magic!” Cassandra’s eyes widen. “Jenkins! Watch out!”

“Our shields can’t take a spell like that!” Navi’s wings flap frenetically. Apep fires, the spell shooting towards them, surging forward as mass of shadows that threatens to devour them all whole. “Mor—“

Just before the darkness can even touch the shield, Jenkins leaps in front of them, forcing himself between them and Apep’s corruption spell. His head smashes back, his neck cracking, as he takes the full brunt of the spell head-on.

The darkness consumes him, severing muscle and bone, tearing apart sinews, corrupting him down to the marrow. He slams against the shield before being blasts back, crashing through trees to finally land in the nearby river with a sickening crunch.

They wait…

One second…

Two seconds…

Jenkins doesn’t get up again.

—

—

The scene is like out of one of those old comic books Eve used to read as a kid, every panel hosting a different reaction in real time, real life.

Ezekiel stares at the dark river, the silver pen in his hand shaking.

Jacob looks shell-shocked.

Cassandra holds a hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes.

Mordred laughs, quietly at first before his triumphant laughter is so vigorous that it almost sounds like sobs. 

Apep just seems disappointed by the turn of events.

It’s Morgan who breaks the silence, and to Eve it’s like she’s moving in slow motion, her voice echoing in Eve’s head like a bell.

“Galeas!” Morgan calls out to him, her silver ring flaring blue. “ _Galeas!”_

—

—

The water rushes into his lungs as the darkness engulfs him. Suddenly, he’s drowning once again, desperately trying to make to the surface, for just a bit of life, as Satan’s laughter echoes in his head. _(“You will never be enough, Galahad,” the Devil snorts. “You will never be strong enough. Do us both a favor and die, will you?”)_

But he won’t—not then, not now—because he still has promises to keep.

He’s thrashing, frantically pushing himself up, only to be dragged back down by an inextricable weight in his chest. The hellfire in his heart is roaring in his ears, the heat burning away everything until only that single promise is left.

He is _Jenkins_ , he reminds himself, he _is_ Jenkins, _he_ is Jenkins, and Jenkins did not swear those particular vows.

He’s not that scared little boy anymore and he’s not that fool who drank from the Grail and he’s not the greatest knight in the world and he’s not the champion of children’s bedtime stories or a living legend or the hero.

He’s just a coward.

( _But you promised,_ a small, quiet voice in his head says, full of innocence lost. **_You_** _promised. You **promised**._

He wants to scream that he **can’t** be that person anymore _.)_

He is drowning, not in water but in his own flame.

It's her voice that pulls him back, drags him off the precipice where the only place to go is down... down..... down.......

“Galeas!” he hears Morgan call for him. “ _Galeas!_ ”

She is his lifeline. Where there is only darkness, her voice alone is enough to create a single ray of light. Like always, she is his saving grace and his trump card all in one.

_(“Come on, you fool.” She grins, offering him a hand out of that dark river. Her voice drowns out the Devil and the dark and the doubts and the lies. His fingers curl around her and she pulls him out of the darkness, brushing the dragon away from his head and holding him close. There are galaxies in her eyes—how lucky he is to be in her orbit, how lucky he is to be under the same sky. “Let’s go home, Galeas.”)_

He feels her through the magic tentatively calling to him, can feel her fear and her hope and her wish for all the what-could-have-beens. He can remember, remember what they once were and what they will become, and memory alone is enough to change their story.

 ** _Everything dies,_** the dragon whispers in his ear. **_Even stars burn out._ **

_(“Only I can help you save her.” the darkness murmurs teasingly, its glowing eyes grinning at him in the dark. He looks at Morgan, drained of her magic and struggling for breath, of what he would do, will do, to just make her open her eyes for just one more time. “Give me favor—just one!—and I will give you the power to **save** her.” _

_The thief is pleading in the background—_ he is just a common thief who got mixed up in the wrong crowd, he didn’t mean to hurt her, he did this to save his sister! _—but it slowly fades to silence as his magic curls around the boy’s throat._

_He can feel everything from the thief. See every memory. Every thought. Every love. Every regret. Every hope. Every dream._

_He holds the boy’s very trembling soul in his hands, sees the boy’s light and what-could-have-been and what-could-be._

_And for a horrifying moment, he finally realizes that—_

_—he. doesn’t. care._

_Because he will do anything to protect her star for just a moment longer._

_He turns to face the darkness and holds out a steady hand. “Just tell me how I can save her.”_

_The darkness does.)_

All he has to do is decide once again.

He decides to _win_.

Regardless of the damned consequences.

“Not today!” he defiantly roars back, unfurling the restraints around his hellfire heart.

He lets himself fall to the dark.

He calls to the last remaining bit of magic thrumming in this vibrant forest, feels it _scream_ as he rips the very life from his surroundings. He’s blazing, a hearth that has roared into an inferno, as he ignites with more power than he’s had in a very, _very_ , **_very_** long time.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know the person who opens them.

The cold fear that has seized him scatters to dust and ashes before the blast of his hellfire heart as he banishes the dragon with an effortless wave of his hand. As he rises from the darkness, he can feel the corruption wrap itself around him, warping him, twisting him beyond recognition. He is finally who he was meant to be, destined to be—God’s Judge, Jury, and Executioner all in one, His rage and His Judgement and His unrepentant wrath. 

He stares at the glowing eyes and he doesn’t even blink.

The dragon’s fire had once blinded him, wispy smoke that clouded his vision. In the midst of his rage and fear and terror, he finds that he can finally see pristinely for the first time. Only now he can see what he could once not.

The answer is crystal clear.

He raises a hand and leaps from the dark river, calling his sword—his _real_ sword to his outstretched hand.

“What the—“ Mordred barely manages to open his mouth, haphazardly raising his sword. A single stroke of his own sword sends the blade flying out of the boy’s helpless hands. He slices through Mordred’s wave of water, the droplets scattering around them. Magic wraps Mordred with just a tightening of his grip, slamming the would-be king to the unforgiving earth. The boy gasps under the pressure, bones beginning to twist and crack, as he struggles for breath.

“You’re grounded, Mordred,” he tries to say, but another voice speaks for him. A voice that is not his own. Not Galahad’s. Not Jenkins’s.

He doesn’t know who it is.

( _But you **do** ,_ the darkness smirks in his ear, its glowing eyes glittering knowingly.)

He’s beginning to only see in shades of red **_red_** **_RED._**

“Huh. I’m almost impressed...” Apep claps slowly, sarcastically, a broad, greedy smile spreading across his face. “What else can you do, I wonder? Show me what you really are!” The God prepares to launch another << _corruption_ >> spell at the Librarians.

He sees Camelot’s fall. The darkness that consumed it. The darkness that consumed even Arthur. (“ _Camelot fell,” he had once snarled to Lancelot. “That was its fate.”)_

But this isn’t **_their_** fate to fall in the same way.

His body is moving out of instinct. Only he stands between the death and the people he loves more than anything in the world. His sword is a blur as he burns away the darkness, incinerating the doubts and the fears until only his indomitable rage remains.

Just because he is not allowed to kill Apep doesn’t mean he won’t make the God _burn_. (He knows better than anyone that even Gods _bleed_.) 

“Not bad!” Apep calls, still believing in the farce, in the dance that Galahad the Grail Knight of Virtue, that Jenkins the Caretaker, would have willingly played along with. “Surely you can do—“

His sword, its hilt burning red, slashes the God’s shoulder, snarling with power. He rips through the protective barriers around the Egyptian God with his wrath’s inferno.

The God’s eyes widen before they narrow, and the fight becomes a _fight_ in the way that magic transcends even science, in the way that swords can become souls.

When with all the power of chaos in the Heavenly Domain, Apep unleashes a destructive spell that threatens to drown the world in darkness, Lancelot’s snide voice echoes “ _G_ _reatest knight in the world or not, the boy is still just a bastard_ ” in his head and he smashes the spell aside. As Apep flies toward him, throwing spell after spell at him, the dragon itself flies out of his childhood, roaring, to send the God tumbling back.

Apep furiously glares at him, the God’s mouth opening to curse him to oblivion. By then, his hand is already curled around Apep’s throat, cutting the fallen God off with just a squeeze.

“I won’t let you hurt them,” he whispers in a voice that is not his own. It sounds more like a strangled scream. **_“I won’t let you hurt them!”_**

The hellfire burning in his heart has burst to life in his hands. Hatred chokes the life out of Apep and hellfire begins to burn the immortality out of the God. The smell of burning flesh is acrid in his mouth, ashes and ashes, dust and dust.

The Egyptian God tries to flee his vessel in a horde of scarabs. He reaches out and magic catches Apep for him. A single clench of his hand forces Apep back into his victim, screaming, shrieking, as hellfire begins to burn away the God’s very soul.

Apep’s screams, he notes distantly, are a melody—of chaos, of pain, of loss, of revenge.

It terrifies even _him_ that he finds it beautiful.

“Galeas! **_Stop!_** ” Morgan’s voice forces whoever he has become out and brings the dead knight and Jenkins back. The darkness clouding his vision is driven back as he sees, really sees once again. The once vibrant forest is now decayed to rotting pulp and ashes. The Librarians and the Guardian are looking at him in the same way they once looked at Lancelot.

And Morgan…

Her side is stained red, crimson burst into full bloom. Her light is dimming dangerously, fading. She can barely stand, he senses with growing panic.

He meets her eyes and he sees the same terror he’s feeling.

He could kill their enemies—they are alive and weakened and ripe for taking. He could enact his own judgement on them, His judgement be damned. He could. He _should_. It’s what’s right. It’s what’s for the best.

For the world anyway.

The longer he lingers here, the faster her light burns out.

 _(He won’t lose her too, he promises to himself_. **_He won’t lose her too_**. **_HE WON’T LOSE HER TOO._** )

What is the world compared to the majesty of all the stars burning in the sky?

The God is nothing more than a footnote in comparison. He discards him as quickly as he picked him up. The dragon returns in full force, cold-fear freezing away his strength, his anger, until his hellfire heart burns to cinders and the shadow is all that is left.

He is by her side in an instant, hands trembling. His magic intertwines with hers, snaking around her, glowing gently like starlight, as he transfers as much magic as he can to her. It’s not enough—he needs more, needs to be _stronger_ if he is to save her, if he is to save all of them. 

 _(“You will never be enough, Galahad,”_ the darkness reminds him. _“You will **never** be strong enough.)_

“Galeas,” she whispers, her voice soft, reaching out to touch his hand. “Let’s _go_.”  

His fingers intertwine with hers, sparks of magic racing between them. “As you wish, my lady.”

In an instant, the portal takes effect, bursting into an explosion of golden light. They disappear with a rush of light and roar of wind, leaving the darkness far behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got this out as soon as I could! Hopefully it's ok? My life is a living example of Murphy's Law. Sorry this chapter is a little long!
> 
> To clarify certain plot points, Jenkins and Morgan split up in the beginning, since Jenkins prioritized the Librarians' and Morgan's safety. The person launching magical attacks was Apep. He regrouped with Mordred offscreen to start up improvised plan B.
> 
> My little LITs are finally using magic because it's an emergency and they don't want to die. Yay! Cassandra showing off some nice shield spells, Ezekiel's ready to use his sword at moment's notice, and Jacob will have his time soon to hopefully send him off to Shangri La as per canon. Hopefully, we shall see more of Flynn in the next chapter or the chapter after that. It's still in the works... :/ 
> 
> Morgan and Jenkins snarking with each other is really fun to write. For me, it's pretty in character, and it's also a fun way to see where Mordred got all the sass from. The more stressful and dangerous the situation, the more they snark to keep each other sane. 
> 
> Unfortunately for everyone involved, history has a nasty way of repeating itself. Corruption spells... Deals with THE Devil (not A devil)... What can I say? Apep may be a snake, but he's good businessman who knows how to diversify his portfolio. 
> 
> As always, comments/opinions/concerns are always welcome! :D


	10. crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which more questions are asked than left answered and choices are made

Morgan knows that she’ll never the end of this from Navi. Some plan indeed. (But to be fair, it’s not _really_ a plan if it’s improvised.)

How was she supposed to know her stupid nephew was raised from the dead and had decided to get revenge and teamed up with the Egyptian God of Chaos? Even the Oracle of Delphi wouldn’t have seen that one coming. …not that she actually could now _anyway_ , being dead and all, but all the same.

Still, this entire situation is not one of Morgan’s finer moments.

It’ll go up with what Navi likes to call ‘Morgan’s greatest idiocies’ or as of recently, ‘The Hall of Stupid.’ Knowing Navi, this particular plan will probably land somewhere in the top ten. The number one spot, of course, Morgan notes a little crossly, is marrying that fool in the first place.

(Over a thousand years of heartbreak later and she knows that, for all its faults and follies, wasn’t a mistake.)

Getting away from the chaos and confusion Apep and Mordred have cooked up is a cakewalk. The portal’s easy enough—irritating, in the same way a buzzing fly is, but nothing that she can’t accomplish without too much trouble, even in a weakened state. His children are, as expected, annoying, but she knows how to deal with their like easily enough.

When she sees the corruption spell, however, it’s no longer a petty game or improvised plan, but her worst nightmare come to life. The spell hits Galeas dead-on as he uses himself as a human shield. He’s blasted back, and she forces herself to keep running the portal’s spell instead of rushing to his side.  

She knows what he has done and what he can and _will_ do, for there is nothing either of them will not do to protect the ones they love. There is darkness tinging his aura, generally a shining silver and blue, a void of light where Galeas’s heart should be.

He falls to the dark and there is nothing she can do about it.

But he already fell, she knows, a long, long time ago.  

(“ _I won’t let them hurt you,” he whispers franticly in the darkness, his eyes shining in the shadows. He pulls her close to his chest, as if they are apart for any longer that the chasm between them will fill with ghosts. “I can’t lose you…”_

_“You have me, you fool,” she whispers back, her lips brushing his cheek. “For forever and a day.”_

_“I thought it was forever and two.” Galeas intertwines their fingers together, their rings coming together with a quiet clink. He murmurs warmly, “You did swear the vows, after all.”_

_“As did you.” She kisses him fiercely. She hopes she tastes like_ I love you. _She hopes she tastes likes_ I’ll protect you. _She hopes she tastes like_ You have me.YouhavemeYouhaveme _and it’s a promise she can keep_. _But while he too tastes like all of those things, underneath he tastes like fear and ashes and blood._

_She’s terrified she tastes like that too._

_War is brewing…again, and they know exactly who will be fighting on the vanguard. Though they live still, one day, when they—Camelot’s greatest sword and mightiest shield—are worn to the bone, they will not be **enough** and Camelot will fall with them to become ashes and dust. _

_But until then…_

_She’ll savor the moments where it’s just the two of them, where he isn’t Galahad and she isn’t Morgan le Fay. In these moments, they are safe, they are whole, and they are finally complete._

_“You’re **mine** ,” she reminds him, holding him close, “I won’t let anyone else have you.” _

_“I know.” He smiles, and the darkness on his face melts away. Galeas kisses her again. He tastes sweeter than wine, like hope and dreams long forgotten—of peace, of justice, of that little house on that lake. “I know.”)_

She won’t lose him to anyone, not to Gods, not to men, not even the magic that had destroyed Camelot.

Even now, he is **_hers_**.

As her magic slips through her finger and her power fades away, she still reaches for him, to bring him back, to bring him _home_. Her voice seems to dispel the darkness from his face, and his demons and the darkness return to the shadows.

He looks at her like she is the ocean and he is a man desperate to drown. She is his anchor his compass and the storm—the thunder, the lightning, and the hurricane—all in one person, and he is hers.

He is by her side in an instant because no matter who he pretends to be or what he becomes, big or small, Galeas will _always_ do his duty.

“Galeas,” she whispers, her voice soft, reaching out to touch his hand. “Let’s _go_.”  

Cold fear clouds his vision and forms a dragon that strangles him alive. _(“I can’t lose you…” he whispers, holding her close_.) His fingers intertwine with hers, sparks of magic racing between them, as he gives her all that he has, all that he is. “As you wish, my lady.”

The last of her magic is enough to activate the portal, and they disappear into the Annex in a blaze of light.

They all fall through the darkness, whizzing through nothingness. There is a ringing in her ears and a buzzing in the back of her head. Lesser magic users would have burned up by now, fallen like Icarus for their hubris to dare walk between worlds and back again.

But she is not a lesser magic user—she is _Morgan le Fay_ , the greatest sorceress in the world, the very woman who causes even Gods to fall to their knees, and she will not die from her own spell in this life or the next. She rips through the very fabric of existence, spitting on the laws of dimension and time and the impossible.

Morgan grits her teeth and blasts the doubts to smithereens and thinks of _home_.

And it hurtles past, like the brightest star in the sky, and she calls it gently to her hands and it comes, shyly at first before whizzing over to kiss her palms. The darkness around them fades away, and suddenly, they’re drowned in the familiar golden light of the Library.

It isn’t home—not yet. Perhaps it will be, if all things go according to her terrible, improvised plan.

“Morgan.” Galeas closes the distance between them, evidently not caring what his children will think of the gesture. There’s cold fear in his eyes, a frozen, blazing wasteland. The monster dwelling in his chest rears its ugly head, shadowy tendrils coming together to take a definite, draconian shape.

“Oh.” Following his gaze, she looks down at her side, at the crimson blooming there, unnaturally bright against her rapidly paling skin. She gives him a small smile. “Fun.”

The adrenaline rush begins to fade, and everything begins to catch up with her. The throbbing in her abdomen from that anti-transportation spell. The heavy weight of her legs. The aches. The soreness. The pain. 

The world begins to spin. Her breaths are uneven, coming out in gasps. Galeas helps lower her to the ground. His magic, or what’s left of what he had forcibly taken, anchors her, pouring into her and keeping her fluctuating magic levels stable.

He summons a well-worn wooden box to his hands, opening it up and revealing seven familiar gleaming rings. His hands don’t tremble as he plucks three of them from the box and places them on his fingers. The effect is immediate. His magic, once dwindling on embers and smoke, bursts into bloom, brighter than the sun or any far distant star, with power that is gentle and terrible at the same time.

He has always been more than just a star. While diamonds may dazzle, they have nothing on Galeas’s eyes. The night sky pales in comparison to his light. (What is a mere star compared to the galaxies in his very eyes?)

It’s this radiance that drags her away from the cold darkness as his magic, his real magic (or part of at least) in all its power and glory, intertwines with hers.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, reaching out with his magic to pull her back to the world of the living. He holds her tight, unwilling and afraid to let go. “ _You have to stay with me._ ”

She knows that voice. It’s the voice that had put thousands to the fire and sword for Camelot’s sake, for Arthur’s sake—for her. It’s the voice of the man who had willingly left to seek the Grail and returned with the power of his own concentrated will. It’s a voice wrapped in hellfire and love—dreadfully beautiful and beautifully dreadful at the same time.

It’s his voice, but it isn’t. It’s the version of him if he let the shadows consume him, if he gave into the darkness and allowed himself to give into the smoldering fear quietly burning in his chest.

Morgan knows he would do that gladly. There is **_nothing_** he wouldn’t do to keep those he loves safe. Just like Arthur. Just like Morgause. Just like Mordred. Just like Lancelot.

Just like her.

“Galeas… It’s… It’s all right,” she whispers, reaching out gently squeeze his hand. They’ve been through worse. She’s survived this once before a long time ago. Morgan hopes that her smile reaches her eyes. He is the fire that drives away her darkness, and she’ll be damned not to try to bring him back into the light. “It’s _all right_.” 

“Don’t lie to me…” His voice breaks. The nervous edge in his voice is replaced by something even sharper. She sees that beast’s eyes instead of Galeas’s now, half-mad with desperation. His magic shifts around her body, desperately trying to stabilize her rapidly depleting magical power. “Not again. Not now. Morgan…” Her name on his lips is both a curse and a prayer. “Please… Stay with me... _Stay with me!_ ”

Unadulterated power begins surging through the room. The lights flicker, as if threatening to go out permanently, the books on the shelves begin to rock precariously, and the darkness on his face is back, his eyes burning like hellfire.

He reminds her of a shooting star she had once seen as a child, whose light had flared so brightly before it collapsed on itself into dust.

Whatever the Guardian and the Librarians are telling him seems to melt away as Jenkins places his palm on Morgan’s chest, letting the magic spread across her. It envelopes her in warmth, sinking into her chest, pulling her from the quiet darkness that beckons her to come closer, to just rest for a while.

Is this what it feels like to know that you’re about to die? she wonders. If this is how she goes, she’s a little glad. It’s colder than she thought it would be and the killing blow isn’t like how she imagined it—then again, nothing in life ever is—but if she is to die, Morgan has always imagined dying by his side.

A pair of glowing eyes glitter in the dark, and Galeas glares at them. “You can’t have her,” he growls, and the glowing eyes smirk. Galeas’s magic snakes itself around Morgan, intertwining with hers, glowing gently like starlight, a mix of blue and green and silver and gold. “She’s _mine_.”

She feels like she is drifting off to a lucid dream, but his magic anchors her, a gentle fire that guides her home to where he is waiting with his burning eyes.

“You fool.” Her fingers intertwine with his, her smile soft. He doesn’t pull away.

He’s staring at her desperately, watching his worst nightmare come to life. The fire in Jenkins’s gaze doesn’t burn out, even as Morgan’s wounds begin to heal, flesh and skin knitting together until it is good as new.

Morgan reaches up to touch his face, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. “It’s _all right_ , Galeas.” He lowers his eyes to the ground and she lifts his gaze. “I won’t die, even if someone killed me…” She grins, suddenly feeling very tired and very old. “You know that.”

“Unfortunately.” He’s still frowning, but his eyes sparkle with something softer, sweeter. The darkness seems to recede slightly, the dragon collapsing back into shadows and ash. Galeas becomes _Galeas_ once again, whatever he had become in Cornwall has been crushed to stardust and scattered across the night sky.

Galeas holds her close, too close, tightly, too tightly, as if he is afraid she will fly away if he doesn’t hang on.

“You almost died,” he says quietly, just a shade paler. “You almost _died_.” She can hear the unspoken words in parentheses. ( _I could have lost you. I can’t lose you. I won’t let them hurt you.)_

Faintly, she can hear an echo of _I love you_.

She looks at him, and she sees not the knight in shining armor from the legends or the cantankerous Caretaker he pretended to play but the same fearful, imperfect, reckless, headstrong, brilliant fool she had loved and lost.

It’s just like old times.

Her heart breaks. (But can something break if it’s already broken?)

“I’m fine, Galeas.” Morgan cups his cheek, her thumb tracing meaningless patterns on his skin. “Are _you_ all right?” Morgan asks, concern flitting onto her face. “You took that spell—“

“It’s fine,” Galeas replies quickly, too quickly. (That’s how she knows it’s not. But she’ll find out about soon enough; she always does in the end.) “I’ve had worse.”

She knows. Morgan smiles softly. She had been the one treating him every time.

“And done worse?” Her voice is just a whisper. They both know the terrible price of magic and what he did to win. (Not win, she corrects herself, to _save_ them—her and the children...though mostly her.) 

Galeas bows his head, closing his eyes tiredly. “You already know the answer to that.”

She does, and she doesn’t care in the slightest—because he may not be whole or the Grail Knight of Virtue everyone else believes he is, may not be happy, may not be by her side, but he’s _alive_ and he’s _safe_ and that’s all that matters.

That’s all that matters, really, in the end.

Tiredness is beginning to cloud her vision with darkness. She struggles to hold on, but his hand brushes her cheek. Galeas lifts her gently in his arms. He has always been dragon fire in human form, but right now, his fire has been tempered to be the warmth of the hearth on a snowy day. Her hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer; her fingers trail from his neck down his collarbone to brush his chest.

She can feel that golden ring hanging around his neck press against her, and she _knows_.

Her own ring of silver and blue feels heavy on her fingers. Morgan gives him a look that he returns with a too nonchalant shrug. “I swore the vows, after all.” He avoids the scrutiny of her gaze.

She reminds him gently, “You’re not a knight anymore.”

“There are more important vows,” he admits softly, so softly that even she can barely hear him.

Morgan smiles, resting her head against his chest. “Thank you, all the same.” They’re safe, and he’s warm. It’s not a bad idea, she thinks, to rest, just for a little while. She falls to the darkness in his embrace, and her eyes flutter shut.

—

—

Flynn hurries into the Library as fast as he can. He has a new lead on Charlene, but that can wait—it’s more important to protect what he has than it is to chase what may be a ghost. He throws open the back door, strolling in with his newest bit of information from Judson’s friend’s second cousin’s brother-in-law that was somehow twice removed.

“Apep revived Mordred!” he announces bombastically, pausing for the dramatic effect.

It doesn’t work. At all.

He’s almost disappointed. Flynn misses the days when his little LITs would perk up at his arrival and immediately bound over and demand what new case he had for them. Almost, anyway. In a war, having four fully-trained Librarians is certainly better than having just one.

Ezekiel looks at Flynn, exasperated and unimpressed. “Little late there, know-it-all,” the thief says rather snidely. “We already know. We just fought them.”

Eve isn’t any better. She goes back to giving Jenkins a death glare so fierce that Flynn is impressed that Jenkins _isn’t_ cowering in a corner in the middle of nowhere. Her cheeks are inflamed in anger. He’s almost grateful she hasn’t shot him yet, but then again, Eve Baird is an eminently practical woman and practical women do not waste bullets trying to kill something that cannot be killed.

Cassandra turns back to give Jenkins a look of utter disappointment, and Jacob’s eyes linger on Flynn’s for a moment longer before they go back to Jenkins.

It's only then that he notices the red-headed woman that Jenkins is holding tightly in his arms, and his eyes widen. Holy mother of—

“What’s _Morgan le Fay_ doing here?” Flynn’s eyes follow his friends’ glares to finally rest on Jenkins. His brow furrows. “How’d she even get in here, Jenkins? What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later.” Jenkins turns to move toward the door, eyes glittering with something as they look upon Morgan. A light fairy flutters by his side. “I have other things to attend to.”

“You mean **_her_**?” Eve rounds on him, blocking the elderly man’s path. Flynn frowns. Looks like he has the good fortunate coming at the start of an argument. “Stop lying to us! Why do you even care about her? What did you do at Cornwall? Why are you using magic? What the hell is going on?” The Guardian’s glare intensifies to a breaking point, going from finely cut diamond to well-honed mithril. “Just explain, Jenkins! It’s not that difficult!”

There is something different in Jenkins’s eyes, something darker, a shade of Dulaque’s cruelty and Dracula’s pragmatism with a tidbit of Uncle Jerry’s madness. His smile is too serene to be real. His voice is cold as he starts, “Colonel Baird, I am prioritizing the safety and health of a potential ally—“

“—who strangled you and tries to hurt children!” Eve snaps.

Cassandra adds, “And tried to kill us.”

“And destroyed Camelot,” Jacob points out.

Flynn nods in agreement. “We all know she’s on Team Evil and Team Chaos, Jenkins.”

“Alliances have been built on worse.” The serene smile on Jenkins’s face never moves. He shifts a sleeping Morgan le Fay in his arms into a more comfortable position. Jenkins makes a move to side-step Eve, only to find Jacob and Cassandra blocking his other routes. Frowning, he says, “She will be a powerful ally in the wars to come.”

“Provided she doesn’t betray us first. You’d know that first hand.” Fire burns in Jenkins’s eyes as Flynn walks forward, his own eyes narrowing. “What’s going on here Jenkins? Last time I checked, Morgan was in the Mirrorlands.”

“Well, she came back,” Jenkins says dryly, stating the obvious.

“I can see that.” Flynn gestures to the woman in Jenkins’s arms. “Why?”

Jenkins falls silent.

“It’s a long story,” the light fairy by his side rescues him. “Like really, **_really_** long. Let’s tell it another time, shall we?” The light fairy tries to nudge Eve gently out of Jenkins’s way, only to be forcibly pushed back. “Hey!”

“Neither of you are leaving until you finally let us know what’s going on!” Eve snaps. “Apep and Mordred are targeting you Jenkins. We have a right to know _why_!”

“What can I say?” Jenkins shrugs. “I’m popular.”

Flynn knows that look on Eve’s face—it’s the one she gets when she’s _really_ mad and wants to smack someone, left, right, left, right, left, right, before uppercutting them ruthlessly in the face. (And that’s if she was feeling particularly merciful…) “Not funny, Jenkins!”

The light fairy frowns, or at least Flynn thinks it frowns. It’s kind of hard to tell with a glowing ball of light. “Well, what he said is actually true…” The light fairy glances at Ezekiel absently.

“You’re not the only one Apep and Mordred are targeting. You went with us due to personal business,” Ezekiel remarks quietly. “It was for her, wasn’t it?”

Jenkins closes his eyes tiredly. “Only because I owed her a favor—nothing more,” he murmurs.

“Only?” Ezekiel echoes.

The Caretaker won’t meet the thief’s gaze. Ezekiel lowers his eyes, almost, Flynn realizes, as if he finally understands something that has flown over all of their heads.

“What did you owe her _for_?” Cassandra asks before Flynn can approach Ezekiel, her fists clenched at her sides. “Why would you even deal with her after all that she’s done?”

“The enemy of my enemy, I suppose.” His expression reveals nothing. “She helped me, and I owed her a favor in return.”

“ _How_ did she help you?”

He shrugs. “Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Cassandra repeats. When Jenkins doesn’t elaborate, she continues, “And here I thought Flynn was good at keeping people at arm’s length.” She has a point, Flynn freely admits. Cassandra’s face is the very picture of disappointment. “I thought you cared about us, Jenkins. I thought you _trusted_ us.”

“I do.” (But Flynn notes that the old man doesn’t say how much.)

“Then let us help you!”

The smile on Jenkins’s face slips for just a moment before it returns in full force. “I’m already beyond help, Miss Cillian,” he laughs humorously.  

“I’ll say.” Jacob’s eyes glare daggers at Jenkins. “Did you used to do stuff like that back in the old days? Killing things, using magic, to win?” Jacob growls. “We’re Librarians. We. Don’t. Use. Magic.”

“Good thing I was never a Librarian then.” Jenkins’s smile never wavers. “I’m just the Caretaker, and I’m not beholden to those particular vows.”

Eve begins, “Jenkins—“

“And right now, I have more important vows to keep.” Magic begins to flares around him. Flynn sees a glimpse of what he must have been like during the old days of kings, queens, dragons, and knights in shining armor. The pressure in this room is suffocating them all. Jenkins moves forward. “Stand aside, Librarians, Guardian.”

No one moves.

“Or what, Jenkins?” Cassandra’s blue eyes are sad. “You’ll hurt us too?”

He’s quiet, almost as if he is mulling the option over.  

“No,” Jenkins says at last. Instead, he snaps his fingers. Flynn finds himself pressed up against the bookshelves by some invisible force. Eve and the others are in the same situation as well, struggling against Jenkins’s magic’s unrelenting push. Struggling against his bonds, Flynn deicides to fight fire with some fire.  

“Cal, come!” Flynn calls, holding out a hand. He hears Excalibur’s excited yip and sees the sword speed towards him eagerly.

That is, until Jenkins turns and glares at Excalibur. The sword skids to a stop in mid-air. Excalibur whimpers, glancing from Flynn to Jenkins and back again.

“Cal!” Flynn holds out a beseeching hand. “Come on, boy!”

His bestie, though, still demurs, glancing at Jenkins, who just looks ashamed. He looks sorrowfully at the blade, as if seeing beyond the re-forged blade by the Lady of the Lake and the one created by Merlin instead.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t say what for.

Excalibur continues to hesitate long enough for Jenkins to slip past the door and slam it behind him, the light fairy hot on his heels. Only then does Excalibur fly to Flynn’s hands, murmuring what sounds like apologies.

“Cal…” Flynn looks at the sword, and if swords could look pained, Excalibur certainly does. Why, of course, is lost to Flynn. (Excalibur was _Arthur’s_ sword, not Galahad’s—all the legends and the documents had said so.

And Jenkins had been quite adamant about _not_ helping Flynn retrain the newly forged Excalibur to tip-top fighting shape.)  

The pressure holding them back eases. Eve immediately moves to follow Jenkins, but Ezekiel holds her back. “Jones…” The warning is clear in Eve’s voice.

Ezekiel’s hand is firm. “Don’t go.”

“Why **_not_**?” Eve seethes, her hand ripping Ezekiel’s from her shoulders. “He is supposed to keep you all in _one piece_. He’s supposed to work with me to keep you _safe_. How can we trust him when he’s clearly not being honest with us?”

“Eve…” Ezekiel looks older, more mature than Flynn could have ever imagined, even without a sword in hand. “He loves us. He cares for us. He wouldn’t have had Morgan le Fay rip apart time and space to take us back home if he didn’t _care_.” Ezekiel’s eyes flash, and Flynn sees a glimpse of not Jenkins but of the knight that he had always imagined Jenkins to once be. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have obligations elsewhere.”

“And Morgan le Fay is more important than the lives of you and your friends?” Eve demands.

“Of course not. Not to _me_ , anyway.” Ezekiel frowns. “Don’t make him choose, Eve. Please.” There’s a note of pleading in his voice. Flynn frowns. _Ezekiel Jones_ , master thief never begged, but then again, Ezekiel hasn’t been _Ezekiel Jones_ truly in quite some time.

Eve hesitates for a moment before she storms out, intent on following Jenkins and demanding answers. Flynn tries to follow her, but Excalibur tugs him back, nodding instead to the LITs.

No, Flynn finally reminds himself, thinking of Teddy Chislington. Not LITs, fellow Librarians. He’s a Librarian, not the Librarian. Not anymore.

“So…” Flynn glances at Ezekiel, Jacob, and Cassandra, swallowing his competitiveness and pride. “Anyone want to fill me in on what’s in the seven hell’s is going on here? Little out of the loop.”

All three of his fellow Librarians exchange glances.

Cassandra begins with a heavy sigh, “It’s a long story…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Morgan's POV doesn't pick up directly from the last chapter. I did that to try to ease it, but Idk how successful that was...
> 
> Hopefully, the build-up is enough for the war come. Flynn finally makes an appearance, so the gang's finally all here! :D If all goes well, things should start picking up and the players will begin to move. 
> 
> Morgan le Fay is so much fun to write. She's snarky but she has her moments where she is thoughtful and almost poetic. Or maybe I just headcannoned her that way. Either way, she's a fun character. 
> 
> Jenkins's need for secrecy is really biting him in the butt, which I thought was never addressed in the way I wanted it to be in the show. It may have happened offscreen, but I think it's nice to see it on screen for the audience because when he withholds his identity and his past in a war like this, it's dangerous for everyone involved. Eve would definitely get pissed off because Jenkins is an asset that she is more than willing to use to keep her Librarians in one piece. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading and your comments! As always, reviews/opinions/critiques are always welcome!


	11. the things we do for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the glowing eyes do more than smirk in the darkness

If the story they tell Flynn is a long one, it’s nothing compared to the one that Ezekiel would have to tell Jenkins as an explanation as to why they’re heading back to Cornwall… _again_.

Ezekiel doesn’t quite know how, but a combination of Cassandra, Jacob, Flynn and _Excalibur_ somehow managed to con him into going back, though at least Navi is with them. Eve is still…talking with Jenkins, according to Navi.

He’s only going to make sure that they don’t get killed.

Which is admittedly harder than usual.

“Fire up the back door then, Stone!” Flynn declares, brandishing Excalibur. “We’re heading to Cornwall!” 

Jacob gives him a mock salute. “Aye, Captain!”

 “That’s the spirit! This way!” Flynn and Excalibur charge through the door, eager for another adventure. Jacob is right behind him. 

They have no idea what Apep and Mordred are up to, don’t even know what’s still here, and they _still_ insist upon recklessly rushing to who-knows-what.

Great, Ezekiel sighs. Just… _great_.

“Come on, Ezekiel.” Cassandra glances at the fluttering glowing ball of light by her side. “We have Navi this time.”

“Yay…” Ezekiel can feel a migraine coming as he follows his friends back through the door.

As they return to Cornwall, Ezekiel can’t help but stare. Whatever Jenkins did has done a number on the entire place. Where once a proud forest stood, there is only rotting wood and ash and despair.

He searches for any signs of Apep or Mordred, but their magical signatures of black and red respectively have vanished from the area entirely. Ezekiel breathes a sigh of relief but still doesn’t let go of his pen.

“Are they here?” Jacob asks, fists raised. 

“No,” Navi says. 

“No,” Cassandra replies.

“ _No_ ,” Ezekiel scoffs.

All three of them look at each other.

“I used a sensory spell to find out,” Navi clarifies.

“I can’t hear their thoughts,” Cassandra explains. 

They both look at Ezekiel. He shrugs. “They’re just not here.” It’s a lot easier, after all, to just say that than ‘I get private lessons from the greatest knight in the world’ and be forced to explain _everything_ in detail. (This must be why Jenkins prefers to play man of mystery rather than being honest about who he actually is.) 

Navi looks at him with piqued interest, the annoyance slowly disappearing from her face. Or at least he thinks that’s what’s happening. Kinda hard to tell. “Well, I’ve also got a read on what spells were used—it’s an entire cocktail of advanced Camelot spells for magic collection, magic concentration, and anti-transportation mixed with a couple of stability spells to make sure the entire place didn’t explode.”

Cassandra hums thoughtfully. “So they’re collecting magic...”

“As well as draining it from the surrounding area,” Navi adds.

“Can we check the spells in question that they used?” Jacob suggests, glancing at Flynn. “Maybe we have something in the Library.”

“I don’t think so.” Flynn turns to look at Cassandra.

Cassandra shakes her head sadly. “Most of the spell books we have from Camelot are rudimentary.”

“Of course they would be,” Navi states matter-of-factly. “High-level spells like these would never make it into books. They were always passed through word of mouth, from master to apprentice.” 

Jacob’s hand touches his chin. “Why all the secrecy?”

“If you think mortal wars are hell, you haven’t seen magical ones.” Navi flutters to Ezekiel’s side. “In those battles, magic is might. The kingdom that has the stronger, better magic is the kingdom that wins. How else do you think Camelot lasted for so long?”

“Luck and a good king?” Cassandra tries.

“I wish.” The fairy sounds wistful. “Under Arthur’s rule, Camelot had magic—the likes of which has never been seen before or since. It was a time that magic was at its height and we knew how to use it.”

Ezekiel frowns. “Is Mordred really _that_ strong?”

“Well, as much as he is an idiot, Mordred knows enough high-level magic to be a threat,” Navi sighs. 

“But why would Apep want to him and not Morgan?” Flynn mutters, looking at Excalibur, who just shrugs.

Navi supplies, “Morgan’s…finicky when it comes to who she works with.”

“Makes me wonder why you stick around.” Ezekiel raises an eyebrow, to which Navi just nonchalantly shrugs. 

“This still doesn’t add up.” Jacob begins to pace. “We still have the Ankh, so Apep can’t release pure evil. He didn’t target us specifically or try to take us out like in Canada.”

Flynn rubs his chin. “Makes you wonder what he’s _actually_ planning...” 

“And why Jenkins?” Cassandra sits down on a fallen log. “Sure he’s powerful, but Jenkins would never work for him.”

As the rest of them bounce ideas of each other, Ezekiel moves further and further away. He has a bad feeling about this. There’s something here that’s very cold and very dangerous. Uncapping his pen, Ezekiel finds himself holding the familiar weight of his sword. Navi hovers protectively by his side.

“Be careful,” she says quietly. “Galahad’ll not be happy if you die, especially on my watch.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re telling me?”

Ezekiel ducks under a branch, scanning the surrounding area before stopping. “Who’s there?” he calls, his magic searching and searching in the underbrush it finally finds a void where magic is supposed to be.

A pair of glowing eyes grin at him from the darkness.

“Who are you?” he asks, taking a defensive stance.

The eyes just smile, its shadows lengthening, reaching out to try to grab his unsuspecting friends. Ezekiel’s body is moving before he can even think. His blade smashes the shadows away as he races forward, blade drawn. Channeling his magic through his blade and himself, Ezekiel pushes himself beyond the limits of a normal mortal, slicing through the darkness with his very soul.

The eyes scream in pain, glowering at him. _“I know what you are, Ezekiel Jones,”_ it whispers. It’s about to say more, but Ezekiel cuts it off, thrusting his blade through the shadows, narrowly missing the glowing eyes’ left eye.  

“So do I! I’m a Librarian!” he shouts defiantly. Ezekiel ducks underneath the outstretched darkness, only to sense more shadows approaching from behind. He braces himself for the pain, only to hear the brutal thump of a shadow crashing into a golden shield.

“Let’s go!” Navi shouts. “Back to the dump!”

“You mean the Annex?” he laughs as they both race away.

There’s a hint of amusement in her voice. “Same thing!”

They both almost trample their friends in their effort to get away. Ezekiel bursts from the undergrowth, calling what’s left of the magic in this place to envelop them in a temporary shield. 

Jacob’s eyes widen as the chaotic mass of shadows following them. “What the—“

“Later! Move!” Ezekiel pushes Cassandra and Jacob through the back door. Navi somehow manages to nudge Flynn through. Glancing behind him, he sees the shadows stop just before the barrier and the glowing eyes smirk.

 _“Tell Galahad I said hello, will you?”_ the glowing eyes ask with a grin. _“Tell him his debts must be paid, or else I’ll find other ways to collect.”_ The eyes rest on Ezekiel hungrily. 

Both Ezekiel and Navi give their culture’s version of the finger in response as they escape through the doorway, slamming the door behind them. Breathing heavily, Ezekiel is sighs in relief as he sees all of his friends unharmed and safe. He re-caps his sword, magically returning to its unsuspecting pen form. 

He's then face to face with a concerned Eve, who seems to have been anxiously pacing in front of the backdoor before they returned home.

“You okay?” Eve fusses over him, checking him for any wounds.

“I’m fine.” Ezekiel doesn’t wave her away though. He can imagine her being an excellent mother the way she’s acting now. “What was that?” he demands Navi, but Navi is already racing away. Ezekiel already knows exactly where she’s going and wonders why those glowing eyes mean anything to Jenkins.

“This doesn’t make any sense!” Flynn paces, Excalibur hot on his heels. “A Chaos God reviving an idiot sorcerer with fast-casting abilities and collecting magic and eyes that can control shadows.”

Jacob sighs, rubbing his aching head. “And here I thought last week’s case with the guy enchanting goats to talk was weird.”

“This has to be a record—nearly dying twice in a day.” Eve, finally satisfied with Ezekiel’s condition, sinks to the floor in relief.

Cassandra frowns. “The real question is what’s all of this magic being collected for?”

No one really has an answer.

—

—

“To build an army,” Apep says quite simply after Mordred asked why they were doing this foolish endeavor in the first place. The two of them had escaped to their safehouse the moment Morgan had fled with the Librarians, Guardian, and Galahad in tow.

“You _had_ an army,” Mordred seethes. That’s not entirely true. _He_ had an army, and he had lost every man—again. And again. A king that can’t protect his people is no king at all, he thinks.

There’s nothing he hates more than Galahad in this moment—except for, perhaps, himself.

He had been weak and stupid and prideful. He hadn’t realized that Apep had subtly added a stronger, much more brutal anti-transportation spell when Mordred hadn’t been looking. As a result, his plan had almost _killed_ Aunt Morgan… If he had actually murdered Galahad… If Galahad hadn’t…

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Mordred wants to rage and rage and rage and then curl up in a ball and cry, but kings do not cry, so he lets his raw anger reign his other emotions in, slipping over his face until it’s just a mask of fury and wrath.

“A better one then, from the other side.” Apep examines his host’s nails, smirking. “Your army was powerful, I’ll admit, but what are mortals compared to Gods?”

Apparently stronger, Mordred thinks bitterly. Galahad has weakened the God to the point where even Mordred, who’s licking wounds of his own, could kill him.

If he hadn’t sworn that stupid oath, Mordred would have in an instant.

“Why?” he instead asks, his knuckles turning white on the hilt of his sword. 

Apep smirks. “We’ll be bringing Ragnarok a little early.”

“Ragnarok?” Mordred frowns, more ire bubbling up from beneath the surface. “Isn’t that just supposed to be a great battle?” That’s what the legends had always said.

He curses internally at the thought. His men, his comrades-in-arms had died for a stupid battle? he internally seethes. He had been revived, not for a chance of redemption or revenge, but a stupid battle in which he is nothing more than a plaything? 

“It’s more than that.” Apep pats Mordred on the head, ruffling his hair. ( _“It’s all right. We all make mistakes sometimes,” Galahad says not unkindly, ruffling Mordred’s hair. “That’s why we have friends to help us back up.”_ ) But Mordred has no one now. Lancelot is… well, who knows where Lancelot is. Not even Aunt Morgan is by his side now, and he can’t blame her if she just leaves him to rot in the hole of his own making.

Apep’s smile is sickeningly sweet as Mordred forces air down his chest. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Mordred.”

Mordred pursues his lips, thinking of what he should do in a situation like this. His father Lot would give him a hammer and cheerfully advise his son to put it through the God’s skull. His mother Morgause, of course, would suggest diplomacy and playing Apep straight into his hands. Uncle Arthur would tell him to befriend Apep and essentially tell him to use the power of love to cause Apep to join his side. Uncle Merlin would propose rage-quitting and walking out and forsaking all his vows (if Mordred happened to see a cute girl, of course).

His brothers Agravaine and Gawain and Gareth would offer to help him in any way they could, but they’re not here anymore.

Aunt Morgan (and Galahad, if he were an honest man—but he’s not, so the point is moot) would propose the only sensible and doable option in this scenario.

“At least I, unlike you, are pretty.” Mordred smirks. “ _Box boy_ ,” he adds snidely.

The infuriated look on Apep’s face is payment enough. If he were to go to Hell today, Mordred would go as a somewhat happy man. “For the last time—it. is. Sarcophagus. God.”

“Some God to be trapped in a _box_.” Mordred relishes the way Apep’s face goes from normal to a scarlet red. “Even genies have a nicer living space, and those are _itty-bitty_.” He presses his pointer and thumb close together, almost touching.

Apep snarls, “Do you Pendragons ever shut up?”

“Are Gods stupid and overrated?” Mordred deadpans, casually lifting up his middle finger and scratching his cheek. 

Apep has downright murderous expression on his face. Mordred, for some reason, has the distinct impression that Apep is three seconds away from killing him for real.

“You’re lucky I still need you,” Apep fumes, “or else you’d be nothing but ashes and bone burning in hell.”

“You’re lucky I swore a vow to you, or else you’d wish Galahad was the one who killed you,” Mordred snarks back.

“After today? Please.” Apep all but coos, “Next time you see Galahad, will you lose your head again?”

“Maybe—but definitely after you.” Mordred’s eyes flick to the shadows as he senses an incoming presence, cold and smothered in darkness. “Who’s there?” He instinctively draws his sword, magic flooding to his fingertips.

“A friend.” Apep’s lips twist into a smirk as a pair of glowing eyes grins in the darkness. “Put the sword away, boy.”

Mordred’s eyes narrow. “Don’t call me boy.”

“Then call me **master** ,” Apep growls. 

Mordred scoffs, “Master _of Idiocy_ , sure.” Still, Mordred reluctantly re-sheathes his sword, glaring at the eyes that watch their back and forth with amusement.

The glowing eyes glitter. _“Apep.”_

“Satan.”

Mordred’s eyes widen. In Hell, he had been under the impression that Satan wasn’t just eyes but had other parts. Then again, he had never actually _met_ the angel in charge of Hell…

Apep drums his fingers on his arm. “Sent the message?”

 _“Signed, sealed, and delivered. He should come soon.”_ The eyes laugh. _“Big or small, Galahad will do his duty.”_

“Good.” Apep leans back, a smug smirk curling onto his lips. “I love it when things go according to plan.” 

“Of course,” Mordred says dryly. “Because nearly dying is the very definition of things going according to plan.”

Apep, for once, doesn’t dignify Mordred with a response.

—

—

Jenkins storms into the Annex’s main room, magic burning, the corruption eating away at what’s left of his shattered heart. He is the fury and the storm and the reckoning all in one. Through the shadows that cloud his vision, he can just make out a shaken Ezekiel and everyone else.

He strides over to Ezekiel, his hands rest on Ezekiel’s shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asks, already knowing the answer from his magic racing through Ezekiel and the rest of them. They’re fine, he knows, but it’s a near thing, far too close to for Jenkins’s liking at all. “Ezekiel, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Ezekiel gives him a small, reassuring smile. “You look like it’s my funeral... I’m good.”

Navi had told him what happened. It could have been more than just a funeral, Jenkins thinks darkly with a sinking feeling in this pit of his stomach. The dragon wraps its tail around his chest, squeezing, its scales ice-cold, like fear.

 _Tell him his debts must be paid_ , _or else I’ll find other ways to collect._

Satan’s message is loud and clear. His shadows have wrapped themselves around Ezekiel, not tight enough to hurt, but tight enough to bind his Librarian-thief to the Devil. Tight enough to strangle. Tight enough to kill.

Ezekiel is _not_ the Devil’s to have.

None of them are.

He will see to that.

He glares at the glowing eyes smirking in the shadows. Hellfire quietly springs to life in his hands. He discretely burns away the darkness around Ezekiel, ripping the corrupted taint from the Librarian and purifying him of the corruption that has taken root.

The dragon still murmurs in his ear, of failure, and weakness, and inevitable death, its flashing claws reaching out to wrap around Ezekiel’s neck. He forces it back down, still unable to crush it completely, but its words still linger, a stark reminder that he is running out of time.

It’s a dead, cold whisper.

_Everything dies._

He finishes its sentence before it can. _Even stars burn out_.

He just feels so…tired. He just wants it to stop, to not think, to rest for just a little while. To not feel the weight of end of the world that has been held up on his shoulders for over a thousand years.

But he can’t. Fate is a cruel mistress, and his has always been written in stone before he had even been born.

( _Charlene had summed it up best, when she was uproariously drunk a hundred years ago. “You are a tragedy written in human skin,” she had said, cupping his face. “You were never meant to be happy.”_

_He had laughed at that. “I know.”)_

Ezekiel is staring at him pleadingly, to tell him—tell them all—what is happening, what can they expect. But he can’t. Not without telling them everything. 

And to do that, will turn them away permanently.

“Right.” Jenkins finally says, already promising not to answer and forcing a smile onto his face. “You’re right, of course, Mr. Jones.”

Ezekiel winks, his eyes sad. “As usual!”

Jenkins’s grin becomes just a tad less forced as he ruffles Ezekiel’s hair. “Naturally.”

“Don’t encourage him.” Eve glares at Jenkins, still apparently put out about Jenkins slamming the door in her face earlier and ignoring everything she had to say. Then again, Morgan is finally stable, so he supposes he doesn’t really care about much else. (She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s **_home_**.)

He’ll worry about the consequences later.  

“Jenkins.” Cassandra’s voice trembles slightly, and it’s enough to make Jenkins start. “What does Apep want with you?”

“Hmm?” His smile is a good mask, a supportive, unassuming mask. He hasn’t felt the need to smile this much, since he arrived as a young squire in Camelot, still wet behind the ears and eager to become the greatest knight in the world. It’s the only he can do to keep the dragon down, to keep the darkness at bay for just a little longer. “Help, I suppose. I am quite knowledgeable in magic.”

“You know high-level Camelot magic then?” Cassandra demands.

“I know of it.” He should; after all, he had helped make some of it, back in the day with Morgan and Merlin. Jenkins grin only widens. Ezekiel and him share a glance, and Jenkins gives him the smallest imperceptible shake of his head.

“And…” Cassandra prompts.

“There’s not much I’d be able to do that Mordred cannot.” He’s lucky Morgan isn’t in the room or else she would have died of laughter at that. Ezekiel’s barely concealed incredulous expression is enough to make Jenkins’s smile finally reach his eyes.

Cassandra’s is a close second. “Yes, because you taking him and Apep on at the same time isn’t _much,_ ” she says, throwing her hands up in quotation marks.

“I got lucky,” he replies dryly.

Eve’s eyes narrow. “I wouldn’t push your luck.”

“And the debts that those eyes said you had?” Jacob asks.

“About to be paid. In full.” He rises, grinning. As long as they remain in the Library (for the time-being, anyway), Apep and Satan will not be able to touch them. He lets a bit more magic loose from its seal, slipping through to wrap around the backdoor to prevent its use. “No harm will befall any of you. No need to worry.”

“That’s when we worry the most,” Flynn says, a curious Excalibur hovering by his side. “Tell us what’s going on.”

Excalibur, Arthur’s sword and later his, would have known already, would have whacked him to next Sunday upon realizing it. (But this is not Excalibur, he reminds himself. This is not the sword once pulled from the stone by Camelot’s once and future king. This is just a sword forged by Viviane with the same name.)

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He makes his way to the door, eager to return to her side. The golden ring around his neck feels heavy. The buzzing in his head is growing louder and louder, chanting everything he wants but can never have. “Later, I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time.” Cassandra looks at him, her blue eyes fierce.

“Well, all things come in threes.” Jenkins is already gone before anyone else can get a word in edgewise. He strides down the hallway quickly, weaving through the corridors and stairs until he finally is alone in the dark.

Sinking to the floor, he rolls his left sleeve and sees the darkness on his skin spreading faster and faster. The spell that hit him isn’t a mere corruption spell, but one tied to the use of magic. He almost laughs and cries at the same time.

Satan, it seems, has gotten him again.

He needs to get back to her side _now_ , before the darkness strangles what is left of the dead knight for good.

“Jenkins…” Eve’s steps are echoing in the hallway as she blocks his path. The dragon roars in his ears. The corruption wraps around his wrist, urging him to strangle her, to push her out of his way, and to take what he has always wanted for himself.

He pushes those thoughts away, hands trembling with the effort.

Eve steps into the light. “You aren’t protecting us by saying nothing.”

“But I am.” He shirks back into the darkness. The less they know the better when it comes time for his debts to be paid. 

“Do you just not want us to know?” Eve stares at him, as if she has never seen him before. “Apep is targeting you. That is a fact. This entire thing, I know is hard, but this is not about your past. This is about keeping the Librarians **_safe_**. How can I if the Caretaker doesn’t tell me what’s going on?”

“You all will be safer not knowing.” He stands, towering over her. “Besides, you’ll have a new Caretaker soon.”

“Jenkins….”  She stands in front of him, holding him back with just a hand. “Please… I’m your Guardian too.”

The dragon laughs in his ear, and he feels the dark begin to choke the breath out of him. “I’m sorry.” He tries to brush past her, but she will not move, pushing him back.

“Are you closing yourself off to us because it’s some sort of penance?” Eve asks softly, gently.

“Penance?” he repeats.

“For what happened for all those years ago. Betraying your comrades. Morgan le Fay. I don’t know…” She trails off uncertainly. “I guess it just occurred to me that it might be something someone might do and not even know it.”

Jenkins looks at her, and for a moment, he doesn’t just see Eve but also a flash of Charlene. In the same way Flynn is Judson’s, Eve truly is her successor. When he’s gone, he is quite sure that the Library will be in safe hands.

“Well, you always know it, Colonel Baird.” He reaches out and pats her shoulder, whispering in her ear, “If you didn’t, it wouldn’t be penance.”

She falters as he moves forward. He slows, regarding her curiously, waiting for her to make a move.

Finally, Eve stands aside and reluctantly lets him pass.  

“Thank you, Eve.” He gives her a small, sad smile before shutting the door to his quarters behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Well, that was a little behind deadline. Unfortunately, school has started back up, so I'll be updating probably monthly due to academics :(. Hopefully, I'll be able to update regularly... We'll see... #EngineeringLife. 
> 
> For this chapter, it's more world-building than anything. Sorry about that. We'll learn more about the Holy Grail soon and Jenkins and Satan's little...spat from years ago and why Satan is just a pair of eyes. 
> 
> In response to what_is_next, I think Eve is coming from a pragmatic perspective in which she does need know what's going on, but I totally see and agree with your point! Thanks so much for always taking time to comment and review! You rock! :D
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> As always, comments/opinions/remarks are always welcome! :D


End file.
